A Little Auld Lang Syne
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: A milestone in Roarke's business prompts another memory-fest. Written in tribute.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _I'm finally back! I'm probably copping out with yet another flashback fantasy that relies on actual series episodes, but I have a reason for it: on November 25 Ricardo Montalbán would have been 89 years old, and this story is meant as a memorial tribute. Ten months may have elapsed since his death, but his fans don't miss him any the less for it. Enjoy!

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§ § § -- April 6, 2006

"Well," said Roarke from the desk, sounding surprised, "this is an auspicious occasion indeed. I wonder why I didn't take note of it earlier?"

"You were probably too busy, whatever it was," Leslie suggested quizzically, looking up from the credenza where she was collecting several bills of lading before leaving to pick up assorted mundane supplies for the resort. "What was it, anyway?"

Roarke chuckled. "It's quite lightweight, but it has just occurred to me that this weekend, I will be granting my one-hundred-thousandth fantasy."

Astonished, Leslie slowly straightened up from her crouch; Christian, sitting on the loveseat sketching out a website design, stopped and stared at him. "Are you telling me you actually keep count?" he asked in disbelief.

Roarke burst out laughing. "Not intentionally so!" he assured his son-in-law, who grinned a little doubtfully. "But it did happen to occur to me to notice it, just now, when it was quiet in here. Even the children seem to be surprised." The triplets, catching the mood, had paused as well and were watching the adults.

"You'd think we ought to celebrate it with something," Leslie suggested. "Maybe a gift certificate to the fantasizer, or something like that."

"Seems to me you should be doing something more substantial than that," scoffed Christian, rolling his eyes. "A mere gift certificate hardly seems like an appropriate memento for such an incredible event."

"Party pooper," said Leslie dismissively. "I think we should do _some_thing."

"Perhaps you can help me decide," Roarke said, just as Julie came in through the French shutters, carrying her room list, with Rory trailing her.

"Decide what?" Julie asked.

Roarke told her, and Julie brightened. "How about a free return vacation, on the house?" she offered. "The guest can stay at my B&B."

Rory squinted at them and asked, "If Uncle Roarke's granted a hundred thousand fantasies, how come the _visitor's_ getting all the prizes? _We_ oughta get 'em because we're the ones who've been here so long." Rory was six, and though only a kindergartner, he was surprisingly intelligent for his age. Julie and Rogan maintained that it had to be the combination of MacNabb and Roarke magic he'd inherited.

"He's right," Leslie said and laughed. "Whoever the guest is with the fateful fantasy, I don't see any reason to reward that person for what was nothing more than pure sheer luck. We should have a private celebration, all the employees and their families, for your having been in business long enough to grant a hundred thousand fantasies. At the very least, close the place down for a day or so and have a big party to thank everyone for being part of the business that allows people to experience their wildest dreams."

"Oh, and there've been some doozies, too," Julie said with a grin, handing Roarke her room list and settling herself into one of the leather chairs. Rory perched in the other, his feet dangling several inches off the floor. "I wasn't here for a bunch of them, but I have some memories, let me tell you. And with Leslie having been in the business just about since she first stepped foot on this island, she's likely to have a headful."

Christian chuckled and laid his sketch pad on the tea table. "I sense a reminiscing session coming on," he said, "and I can't resist one of those. Mr. Roarke, do you suppose you can suspend preparations for a few hours and take enough of a break to provide some of your own recollections?"

Roarke studied the grandfather clock for a moment, then smiled and closed his date book. "Ah, well, perhaps I can spare a little time," he said, which made the others smile. It was a Thursday and usually fairly busy, but as it turned out, the fantasies themselves were rather pedestrian as far as Leslie was concerned. He eyed his daughter now, remarking with a wry smile, "After all, Leslie herself has commented more than once this week that the upcoming weekend is to be nothing exciting. Our hundred-thousandth fantasy is that of a young man who wants to be a film director, and its opposite number belongs to a family who wishes to know what it's like to be rich. So there are no special preparations needed for either of these."

"Awfully pedestrian for such a momentous occasion, isn't it," said Christian dryly, patting the seat beside him. "Come and make yourself comfortable over here, my Rose."

She grinned and settled down beside him, lifting Karina onto her lap when the little girl climbed to her feet and tried to hoist herself atop Leslie's legs the moment the latter sat down. "I see you don't want to miss a second of it, do you, sweetie?"

"Her brother and sister appear to be less impressed," Roarke said humorously, noting Susanna and Tobias busily playing with their toys and barely glancing up at their elders. "I suspect that one day Karina will be begging to take part in the business, just as you once did, Leslie. And quite likely evincing some of the same reactions."

Leslie grinned. "I'm sure she'll be less bowled over than I was—after all, she's a native, and she's probably going to be about as blasé as they come. Me, well…my first year, everything astounded me. And I do mean everything—even stuff that seemed ordinary on the surface of it. Like the weekend of my fourteenth birthday, when Cornelius and Alphonse dropped in on us and took off with Tattoo."

Roarke laughed aloud. "That weekend merely went to prove that Tattoo had a full arsenal of tricks up his sleeve. He gave those two quite a run for their money, with a little help from his friends. And Leslie learned something in the process."

"Well, at least I was able to get some extra credit for that book report I wrote," she said, and laughed along with Roarke.

Christian snorted. "All fine and wonderful, but if you don't mind, I'd like to hear the story, rather than allusions to it."

"Me too," said Julie. "Don't forget, I was off-island for years after Mom and Dad died and Delphine became my guardian. Cough it up, you two."

"Okay, you asked for it," Leslie said and exchanged a merry glance with Roarke.

§ § § -- May 5, 1979

Tattoo had a car all his own, Leslie had learned, built especially for his smaller stature; and as it happened, he drove like a maniac. It was the screech of his tires in the dirt lane that awoke her not too long after dawn on the day before her fourteenth birthday. She leaped out of bed and dashed to the window, just in time to see the back of Tattoo's little car vanish down the lane in a cloud of dust.

"Ah, you're awake," Roarke's voice said from behind her, and she turned to face him. As always, he was fully dressed and impeccable; it was as if he never slept, though Leslie knew he did.

"Where's Tattoo going at this hour in such a hurry?" she wanted to know. "Someday he's going to run someone over, the way he drives."

Roarke chuckled ruefully. "I've told him the same thing," he said, "but it simply goes in one ear and out the other. He has an urgent matter to take care of before the balloon gets here—and this is the only time he can manage it. We will be extra busy this weekend, since we are granting four fantasies. So you'll be an invaluable help to me."

Leslie brightened. "I didn't even think about that till just now. This'll be an extra-special weekend, won't it? I can't wait to get started!"

Roarke laughed. "Good! Then I suggest we have breakfast now, and then we'll be on our way to pick up Cindy and meet the balloon before we return here and greet the regular guests. Cindy and the staff at the other end of the island should be able to keep the children's fantasies well in hand."

For the first time since arriving on the island, Leslie had reason to wear a dress; it was pale aqua in color and thus didn't match Roarke's and Tattoo's white suits. She mulled over this as she dressed and made her bed, wondering if Roarke would laugh at her if she asked for a white dress. She put the idea aside and hurried downstairs to meet Roarke for breakfast on the veranda.

By the time they finished, Roarke had already checked his gold pocket watch three times, frowning. "Tattoo should have been back by now," he observed, ushering Leslie along with him to the other end of the porch and down the steps.

Something caught her eye and she looked up. "Look, Mr. Roarke, there's a balloon up there. Is that ours?"

Roarke glanced overhead and nodded, prodding her down the steps and towards a car that was parked by the fountain. "Yes, it is. They're landing near the amusement park on the other side of the island, so we will have to meet them there…and Tattoo will simply have to get himself over there." He had just started the car when there came the sound of a small engine roaring and a horn beeping. Leslie and Roarke looked around and saw Tattoo's car careening down the lane in their direction, horn blasting, scattering shrieking natives to both sides of the road. He skidded to a noisy halt just short of the fountain and leaped out; Leslie giggled and Roarke watched in exasperation.

"Hurry, Tattoo, hurry," he urged. Tattoo clambered into the front seat that Leslie quickly vacated, and with that Roarke drove toward the other side of the island, turning from the Main House Lane onto the island's only paved road, which ran completely around the perimeter at the coastline and was called the Ring Road. After about ten minutes he took a small side road and pulled up next to a large cottage that would have looked at home in England; children petted assorted animals out front, supervised by an attractive blonde in her mid-twenties. This was Cindy.

A raven perched atop the canopy of a wooden swing in the yard grunted loudly, catching Cindy's attention and making her glance up to where the balloon was just drifting overhead. The car drew abreast of the yard, and the children greeted its occupants; Leslie didn't know any of them, as they were all younger than she was. She, Cindy, Roarke and Tattoo wished one another good morning, and Cindy put down a baby chimp she was holding, at the same time handing to one of the children a bottle from which a small goat was energetically drinking.

"Hurry, Cindy," Tattoo said. "We don't want to be late for the balloon."

Cindy climbed into the car next to Leslie, and Roarke called out a farewell to the kids, who shouted back in response. Waving, he drove away toward the amusement park.

This wasn't very far away now, so they got there in less than five minutes, parked near a small hilly clearing and clambered out just as the balloon settled gracefully to the ground. Children holding leis and musical instruments streamed past them and lined up in two rows near the balloon while several young men tethered it to the ground and one pulled open the door of the basket. "Smiles, everyone, smiles!" Roarke reminded them all, and just as at the main plane dock, the band burst into the same welcoming tune their adult counterparts always played.

First to emerge from the balloon was a blonde woman somewhere in her late thirties or early forties, leading a boy and a girl by the hands. Cindy and Leslie glanced at each other, then at Tattoo, and Cindy grinned. "Make a guess, Tattoo," she suggested.

Tattoo regarded the woman thoughtfully. "I say she looks like a schoolteacher," he offered. "Like the one who almost failed me in the fifth grade."

The girls laughed and Roarke nodded, amused. "Well, that's very close! Miss Ruth Ewell has, for the past sixteen years, operated an orphanage near Cleveland, Ohio—a small orphanage which is now being phased out. Those children you see with her are Rebecca and Mark, her last two charges."

"What's their fantasy, boss?" Tattoo asked.

"One they got from Miss Ewell's," Roarke replied, "something she'd dreamed about when she was a child and also in an orphanage: just once, for the children to be able to help select their own parents, and not the other way around."

Leslie and Cindy, both of whom had had the experience of being orphaned, stared at each other in wonder; neither of them had ever thought such a thing might be possible. Tattoo was clearly as surprised as they. "Can we really do that, boss? Can we give them the parents they want?"

Roarke eyed him. "Within reason, Tattoo, within reason," he said, and Tattoo gave a thoughtful nod and regarded Ruth Ewell and the children again. The kids looked excited, peering around them and asking Miss Ewell eager questions.

Behind them, a tall man and a short one stepped out of the passenger basket, squinting in the bright sunshine. "Your turn to guess, Cindy," Tattoo prompted.

They all stared at the two men, and Cindy finally remarked, "Talk about the odd couple." She turned to Roarke and suggested, "Bad comedy act?"

Roarke shook his head, looking a bit pensive. "I'm afraid there is nothing comedic about those two, my friends," he said. "Cornelius Kelly worked for me here at the hotel on Fantasy Island until I discovered he was a petty chiseler and fired him." He indicated the tall man, who sported a small close-shaven beard on his chin and wore a beret atop his red hair. He looked rather natty, decked out in a dark-blue suit and a white tie. His companion was dressed a little more casually, in a yellow turtleneck with a navy-blue blazer and matching trousers. The shorter man ate an ice-cream sundae someone had handed him while Cornelius Kelly studied his surroundings with a frown.

"What are they doing back on Fantasy Island?" Tattoo wanted to know.

"Well, Cornelius claims to want a quiet vacation for his friend," Roarke told him, "but I know he has returned to fulfill a fantasy—to revenge himself on me for having discharged him years ago." Leslie felt butterflies fill her stomach at this statement.

"Couldn't that be dangerous?" she asked.

Roarke smiled knowingly at her, clearly armed with some secret. "Danger comes in many disguises, Leslie," he said cryptically, evoking an equally knowing smirk from Tattoo. Leslie sighed and decided, as Roarke toasted his new guests with an ice-cream soda, that she was just going to have to wait and see exactly what he meant by that.

‡ ‡ ‡

Leaving Cindy to show the new arrivals to their accommodations, Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo returned to the other side of the island just in time to meet the incoming plane, and spent the next two hours or so seeing these guests off into their fantasies. They then returned to the clearing where the balloon had landed, which now was set up with a large outdoor buffet, which was crowded, mostly with hungry children. Leslie did manage to steal a chunk or two of pineapple, her favorite fruit, but was forced to desist at Roarke's gently admonishing look. She shrugged good-naturedly and grinned at Cindy's wink.

Cornelius Kelly and his friend wandered along the tables, glancing at the contents with little interest; the shorter man carried a picnic basket, but seemed to be searching the tables for food items anyway. Cornelius merely looked impatient. Roarke approached them with Tattoo, Leslie and Cindy in tow, and smiled when Cornelius turned around to watch them. "Well, Cornelius, how does it feel to be back on Fantasy Island?" Roarke greeted him warmly.

Cornelius' smile was thin, but his voice carried a warmth that matched Roarke's all the same. "Delightful, as usual, Mr. Roarke," he said, while Tattoo and Cornelius' friend studied each other with mutual suspicion. "I do hope our past difficulties can be forgotten. I'd like nothing better than to think that we could be friends again."

Roarke smiled. "As you know, one of my cardinal rules is always to try to forgive and forget. If I were to have any doubts as to which way to choose, your sincerity has certainly convinced me." Leslie, who wasn't very sure if Cornelius was as sincere as Roarke seemed to believe, eyed her guardian dubiously; she noticed also that Cindy wore a pleasant but reserved expression and found herself hoping Roarke wouldn't let himself be taken in by a big act. Cornelius dipped his head in acknowledgement of Roarke's words.

Roarke then turned and made introductions. "My trusted assistant, Tattoo."

Cornelius shifted his attention and brightened. "Oh yes…I've heard quite a lot about your friend Tattoo." He shook hands with Tattoo. "It's an honor to meet you."

"Charmed," Tattoo replied with a smile.

"My young ward, Leslie Hamilton, who will be fourteen tomorrow," Roarke went on, watching with a slight smile while Leslie reluctantly shook Cornelius' hand. "And this is Cindy, who helps me on this side of the island."

Cornelius seemed to be a little taken with Cindy and gazed at her with interest. "The pleasure is all mine, my child." He lifted Cindy's hand and kissed it, old-world-style; Leslie shot Roarke a glance, wondering if he or Tattoo was as revolted by his sudden drippy formality as she was. Cindy, though, appeared thoroughly composed.

"If there's anything I can do for you or your friend, please—" she began.

Cornelius interrupted eagerly. "Yes, there is, Cindy, there is something you can do. I've always told Alphonse here about the beautiful interior of this island." He indicated his shorter companion, who stood there regarding his hosts with a smirk, then gestured toward their surroundings. "I'd like to take him on a little picnic to show him. But I've been away so long, and all the island has changed so much, I wouldn't know where to begin."

"Well, I'm sure Tattoo would be happy to direct you to a pleasant spot, won't you, Tattoo," Roarke offered. Tattoo shot him a protesting look or two, clearly not at all happy to do so, but he had no chance to object. "Cindy and Leslie and I have other guests to attend to. _Bon appetit_. Girls?" He accompanied Leslie and Cindy away, leaving Tattoo with Cornelius and Alphonse. Leslie peeked back over her shoulder and saw Tattoo start to speak, then cut himself off, as if realizing Roarke wouldn't pay attention anyway. She waggled a few fingers at him and mouthed _Good luck_ at him, feeling a little sorry for him, but mainly relieved that Roarke hadn't put her in charge of entertaining those two guys.

After getting the Ewell fantasy started and leaving Cindy in charge, he took Leslie back to their own side of the island, with the intent to prod along one of the fantasies. They had a wheelchair-bound former model, Sandy Larson, this weekend, who was about to meet her prisoner pen pal, Michael Banning, for the first time, thanks to Sandy's sister Linda. Banning balked at the whole idea, till Roarke casually mentioned that the plane trouble that had (fortuitously—or not, Leslie thought) forced Banning's prison-transport plane to land on the island could be more easily fixed than anyone had suspected. Banning finally gave in, and Leslie followed him and Roarke out, watching him meeting Sandy Larson and then quietly retreating to the main house so Roarke could clear away some paperwork.

As they walked in, followed by two of Cindy's animal charges who had become friends with Tattoo, the phone rang. Chester, a mischievous chimpanzee, and Pepper, a large and very intelligent parrot, took perches on the same chair while Roarke rounded the desk and picked up the phone. "Yes," he said tersely, while Leslie paused in front of the extra chair Roarke kept beside the desk for her to sit in when he was speaking with guests.

A smug and very familiar voice greeted him with, "We've got your sidekick."

Roarke stared at the wall in disbelief. "You _what?"_ Leslie stiffened and stared at him; it was very rare indeed for him to sound like that.

"There's no need for dramatics, Mr. Roarke," Cornelius said. "We are desperate men, and we mean what we say. Unless you pay the ransom we ask, you'll never see Tattoo again." Roarke switched the call to a speakerphone so that Leslie, who looked more and more anxious every second, could hear.

Slowly he sat down. "Are you saying that you've kidnapped Tattoo?" He turned to Leslie at hearing her gasp, and took her hand for reassurance.

"You really fell for that old buddy-buddy line hook, line and sinker, didn'tcha?" Cornelius taunted through the speaker. "You better believe we kidnapped Tattoo, and we mean what we say!" Leslie's eyes filled with tears at that point.

"Easy, child," Roarke murmured soothingly to her. To Cornelius, he warned coldly, "You must not harm him! Now, what do you want?"

"The deed to Fantasy Island," said Cornelius.

Roarke's dark eyes widened. "The _deed_ to Fantasy _Island?"_ he exclaimed. Leslie canted forward in disbelief, eyes popping, her tears surprised away.

"Do I hear an echo?" Cornelius retorted mockingly. Roarke frowned, then shifted his attention back to the speaker.

"But how do I know that Tattoo is alive at this moment?" he countered.

They heard Cornelius order, "Untie him and bring him to the phone," in a muffled but still distinct voice. Leslie supposed he had put a hand over the receiver but without preventing transmission of his voice, and a few seconds later he must have removed it entirely, for he came through very clearly when he said, "Hubba hubba." Leslie screwed up her face in perplexity at the strange phrase, and Roarke smiled, as if in remembrance. They both listened, through a startlingly sharp and sensitive pickup, while Alphonse grunted and talked himself through loosening Tattoo's bonds.

"There we go," they heard, "just about untied…" This was immediately followed by a series of grunts and the occasional "hey!"

Leslie stared at Roarke. "What do you think they're doing over there?"

Roarke grinned. "I couldn't tell you," he admitted.

Just then they heard Cornelius again: "All right, all right, I—_OOF!!!"_ At this they both grinned; in fact, Leslie had to put a hand over her mouth to muffle her giggle.

"Wish we could've seen what made him do that," she said gleefully. Roarke chuckled in agreement.

Once more they heard Cornelius, sounding remarkably recovered from whatever had made him bellow a moment before. "Speak!" he ordered, but there was silence, and they realized he must have Tattoo at the phone but couldn't get him to utter a sound.

"I'll make him talk," Alphonse offered with a growl.

"Speak," repeated Cornelius' voice, and when Tattoo remained silent, he snapped, "I said talk!"

With that, a loud raspberry blasted through the speaker. Roarke's eyebrows instantly zipped north, and Leslie blurted out another giggle.

"That's Tattoo all right!" she said, delighted. Maybe Tattoo wasn't in as much danger as she'd thought, if he felt confident enough to do something like that.

Amused, Roarke spoke into the phone. "Is that you, Tattoo? How are things in…Red Chief?" Leslie cast him a puzzled glance but put off asking about the reference for the moment.

"I couldn't get him to speak," Cornelius confessed disgustedly into the phone, "but perhaps you recognize the raspberry?"

Roarke smiled again and winked at Leslie. "To give you the ownership of Fantasy Island is an incredible price, Cornelius! I'll have to look into methods of liquidating my holdings and transferring ownership stock. It will be complex and, uh…time-consuming." The last phrase came out with a deliberate emphasis, aimed at Leslie.

"Take your time, Mr. Roarke," Cornelius said. "We'll call you back in two hours."

Roarke scowled incredulously. "Two hours won't be sufficient!"

"I'm sorry," Cornelius replied in a mocking singsong, "that's all the time we can spare. I'm sure you'll make the most of it—particularly since your friend's life is hanging in the balance. Heh heh. Have a nice day, Mr. Roarke!" And, having delivered this little piece of insulting irony, he signed off with a raspberry of his own before the phone went dead.

Leslie looked at Roarke doubtfully. "Sounded pretty final."

Roarke sat back in the chair and regarded her, then Chester, then Pepper, perching on the back of the club chair in which the chimp sat. Chester grunted insistently at Roarke and began to hop up and down in the chair seat. But Roarke lifted a finger and said, "Don't worry, Chester. There are three sides to every triangle." He glanced at Leslie and grinned, and in spite of herself she grinned back. Roarke clearly knew something that she—and probably Cornelius and Alphonse—didn't!


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- May 5, 1979

What with Cindy busy with the Ewell fantasy and Tattoo being held captive, Leslie found herself pressed into service as Roarke's makeshift assistant for the first time since arriving on the island less than three months before. She'd hung around in the background, observing, up till now; it was heady and exciting, if a little scary, to suddenly be temporarily elevated in rank and given a slew of extra responsibilities. Fortunately, none of the fantasies involved any magic that Leslie had yet to be initiated into, so her duties were relatively easy. But all the while, in the back of her mind, was the reminder that Tattoo was the prisoner of a pair of self-titled "desperate men", which put a certain damper on her enjoyment of her momentary new job.

After lunch Roarke tackled some more paperwork, while Leslie began reading a book he had given her. She was finding it quite engrossing, so that by the time she thought to look up and give her eyes a moment's rest, Roarke seemed to have conquered quite a bit of what lay on his desk. "Mr. Roarke?" she ventured, suddenly reminded.

"Yes, Leslie?" he inquired.

"What about all that ownership-transferral stuff?" she asked. "I mean, you know, those two guys…"

Roarke chuckled. "Surely you didn't think I was actually going to start working on that."

She hiked a shoulder up to her ear, feeling quite foolish. "Well…I mean, that's the ransom they want. And you do want Tattoo back alive, right?"

Roarke studied her curiously. "You're truly worried, aren't you?"

She nodded hard. "Who wouldn't be? What if it was me? Wouldn't you be worried about me?"

"Of course I would, Leslie," he said, sobering for a moment. "In fact, I'd be far more worried about you than I am about Tattoo. Leslie, child, you should understand something: Tattoo is no fool, and he isn't the slightest bit helpless. And you seem to forget that I know Cornelius Kelly of old. Desperate he may be, but he isn't the brightest star in the firmament. Granted, Alphonse is a random factor, but I strongly suspect he won't present much of a threat either." He smiled then. "And there's a reason I had Cindy come to take Chester and Pepper to the other side of the island. Those two animals are extremely intelligent, and they'll undoubtedly track Tattoo down on their own and find some way to help him."

"You mean help him escape?" Leslie asked hopefully, sitting up straight.

Roarke grinned. "Once Tattoo gets Cornelius' and Alphonse's measure, I don't think he'll be in any hurry to escape. Now suppose you get back to reading that book, and you just might see what I mean." She stared at him; he nodded and gestured at the book, and she let out a sigh and resumed her reading.

The subject didn't come up again till that evening, long after supper, when Leslie had gotten about halfway through the book. Roarke had told her to give it a break for the day, and she was helping him go through the latest batch of fantasy-request mail when the phone rang a little past eight o'clock. The last chimes of the grandfather clock had just died out when it sounded, startling Leslie and making her drop a letter. Roarke answered while she picked it up; by now even he had begun to look a little tense, and when he said, "Yes, may I help you?" his voice was taut with tension and annoyance. He put the call through the speakerphone a couple of seconds later, quickly enough for Leslie to hear Cornelius' voice saying. "—get the paperwork started?"

"But I expected your call hours ago," Roarke said, audibly relieved at finally hearing from Cornelius. "When I didn't hear from you, I assumed you had a change of heart and were releasing Tattoo."

"Releasing him? Are you demented?" Cornelius demanded. "The only way you'll see him again is if you pay the price."

Roarke settled back and said almost casually, "Well, that's become difficult. The paperwork involved in transferring the island is much more complex than I had first anticipated. It may take…weeks." With the last word went one knowing glance and a wink at Leslie.

"Weeks?" echoed Cornelius, sounding startled. There was a pause, then he cleared his throat and said just a touch reluctantly, "Look, uh…I don't think we want Fantasy Island after all."

Leslie relaxed in her chair and blew out her breath; Roarke grinned at her reaction and said into the phone, "That could be a very wise decision."

"Exactly," agreed Cornelius. "Look—why don't we keep it on a strictly cash basis? Ten million dollars for the life of your little friend." Leslie paled; to her this was an unimaginable fortune. Roarke only shrugged.

"A bargain really, when you consider the priceless worth of a human being, particularly a rare individual like Tattoo. But I'll need time—at least until noon tomorrow." He noted Leslie's anxious look. "Oh, and uh, one thing more. This time I must speak with Tattoo, to be sure he's all right."

"You got it, noon tomorrow," Cornelius said. "Here he is."

"Hi, boss," Tattoo's voice came over the line a moment later.

"How's it going, Red Chief?" Roarke asked, grinning.

Tattoo responded with an Indian tribal call that got abruptly cut off in the middle, as if someone had clapped a hand over his mouth to quiet him. But Leslie grinned, and Roarke released a cheerful huff, nodding approvingly at her.

Cornelius' voice echoed in the quiet study through the little speaker. "Well, you heard him. Start collecting the ten million." The phone clicked, severing the connection; Roarke hung up the phone and regarded Leslie with an expectant grin.

"What do we do now?" she wanted to know.

"Nothing at all," Roarke said, to her astonishment.

"Nothing?? But he wants ten million dollars!" she protested, shocked.

Roarke actually laughed. "Well," he amended benignly, "you are to help me complete this little task here, and then you'll need to go to bed; and tomorrow, of course, you'll finish reading the book I gave you. Just trust me, child, everything will be fine." He indicated the book that lay on the corner of the desk, and she scowled, completely flummoxed. Frustrated, she looked at the title, and out of nowhere it registered; she blinked and gaped at it, everything clicking neatly into place. Roarke's grin lingered as she looked up at him, realization dawning on her features.

"Oh," she breathed, "now I see what you're doing!"

"Indeed," he said, chuckling and patting her arm. "Now, then, what does that letter in your hand have to say?"

§ § § -- May 6, 1979

The morning of Leslie's birthday, her very first on Fantasy Island, dawned bright and sunny; she had left her window open through the night, and the sounds of tropical birds and the intermittent piercing squall of a peacock in the near distance awakened her. She met Roarke downstairs for breakfast. "Any word?"

"Nothing," he replied. "I don't expect them to be awake this early at any rate. Eat your breakfast." He gestured at her plate, and she sat back, watching Mana'olana fill it.

"Are you worried about Tattoo?" she asked suddenly.

"Mercy, no, Miss Leslie. Mr. Tattoo is one of the most brilliant and wittiest men I've ever met, don't you listen to anyone who tries to tell you anything else. He'll have that crook eating right out of his hand before he's done."

"You knew Cornelius?" Leslie exclaimed.

"Certainly did. It's been five or six years, maybe more, since Mr. Roarke kicked him off the island, but I remember that shifty young man as if it were last week. Taking what didn't belong to him…hah!" Mana'olana shook her head with disgust and stepped back, then pointed at Leslie. "Now you eat all that food, young lady. I tell you, you have the weakest appetite of any child I've ever known. Stop your worrying and for mercy's sake, _eat."_ Having delivered this order, she marched back to the kitchen.

Roarke was grinning. "I suggest you pay attention to the lady."

She gave up. "Fine, fine, okay." But to be honest, she was rather hungry, and did enough justice to the breakfast preparations that the cook nodded in satisfaction when she returned to clear their plates and praised Leslie for finishing every crumb.

Thus fortified, she tagged along with Roarke when he checked on their fantasies and called Cindy to see how the Ewell fantasy was progressing. There was a lull then, while they waited to hear from Cornelius, and Leslie had returned to her book when Roarke suddenly commented sympathetically, "This hasn't been the most exciting birthday for you, has it, sweetheart?"

As surprised by the endearment as by the rest of his words, she blinked at him. "Well, I guess I can't say it's the happiest one I've ever had."

Roarke laughed. "I understand, my child, and it's a shame, especially since it's your first birthday here on the island. But don't worry, I promise you we'll see that you have a proper celebration later on today." He winked at her again, then picked up some more mail.

At noon the phone rang and Roarke scowled. "I had begun to wonder what had happened to you," he said. "Don't you realize that we are quite worried on this end?" Leslie snickered at his overacting.

He listened, then shook his head firmly. "I think not, not after you've kept us waiting this long. At any rate, I don't have that kind of money at ready hand, despite what you may think. I'll give you one million dollars, not a cent more than that. Furthermore, I insist that you show me a living, breathing, unharmed Tattoo. This is for the sake of my ward, Leslie; she's been quite upset." So saying, he turned on the speakerphone again.

"Oh…yeah, I getcha," said Cornelius lamely.

"It's her birthday, don't you remember? What kind of birthday do you think the poor girl can possibly have, considering that someone she is very fond of has been taken hostage?" Roarke demanded, now with a full head of steam. Leslie had to choke down giggles at the expression of exaggerated outrage on his face.

"Sorry about that," mumbled Cornelius. "Uh, well, okay. What time ya wanna see him?"

Roarke set up a meeting time and place, and hung up on Cornelius this time, to Leslie's delight. "This is really cool! I wish I'd figured it out before last night." She chortled. "I wish even more that we could see whatever Tattoo must be doing to those two."

"Give us a little time, and you'll find out," Roarke replied whimsically, and she laughed.

About two that afternoon, Roarke and Leslie pulled onto a now-little-used side road some distance off the northern coast of the island. The Old Swamp Road was mostly deserted because it was bisected by a murky pond that trickled only sluggishly into the ocean; and the wooden bridge that had connected the two sections of the road was destroyed in the middle. It had happened a good ten years before, Roarke told her, when a tree fell across it in a storm. They disembarked from the vehicle and walked in silence to the shattered part of the bridge, where they waited, Leslie peering into the trees.

After a few minutes Cornelius appeared out of the woods on the other side and stopped just shy of the missing section. "You alone?" he demanded of the pair.

"Of course," Roarke answered frostily. "Now, where's Tattoo?"

"Stay there," said Cornelius, "we'll let you have a look at him." He yelled over his shoulder without taking his gaze from Roarke's. "Alphonse, bring him forward." He clapped his hands twice. "Hubba hubba!"

Just faintly in the near distance, they heard Alphonse's voice, though not his words, apparently giving orders to someone. Leslie strained to see past Cornelius, but the trees merely rustled in the breeze, giving no indication of what was happening within. Impatiently she leaned aside as if that would help.

Suddenly a strange, almost caricaturish voice commanded loudly, "Reach for the sky, meatball." Roarke looked surprised, and Leslie snapped to her full height, realizing it was a talking bird of some sort—_must be Pepper,_ she thought with a flash of new understanding. The voice sounded again a moment later: "You heard me, reach for the sky!"

This was shortly followed by a grunt, then a heavy thud and another, louder grunt, and then running footsteps, clearly audible in the balmy spring air. Alphonse's voice rose out of the vegetation, shouting, "Hey, come back here! Come _back_ here now!"

Leslie put a hand over her dawning smile; Roarke listened, his face inscrutable but his dark eyes twinkling. Cornelius tossed a nervous glance over his shoulder and said, "Ignore that commotion, it has nothing to do with us. We have the situation completely under control." At the same time Alphonse could be heard roaring, "Where are you? Where are you?? _Come back here!!"_

Roarke called out, "Tattoo! Are you all right?"

"Hi, boss, hi, Leslie!" sang out a very welcome French accent, and Roarke and Leslie both shifted their gazes to the left, where Tattoo stood atop a small promontory just over the pond, waving at them. Cornelius looked that way too, horror blooming on his face. "I'm having a ball!" Tattoo told them.

"Good!" Roarke called back, beaming. "Take care, Tattoo.'

"Have fun!" Leslie couldn't resist adding.

"Oh, I am, don't you worry!" Tattoo assured her, laughing. He turned and let the trees swallow him up again.

"He's in the clearing!" yelled Cornelius in dismay, turning and fleeing back into the jungle, presumably in pursuit of the elusive Tattoo. Chuckling, Roarke turned away and guided the giggling Leslie off the bridge, while she repeatedly looked back over her shoulder.

"Yoo-hoo!" Alphonse's voice rose over the bird calls. "Come out, wherever you are." Hearing that, Leslie caught Roarke's arm and pleaded for the chance to see what happened; Roarke acquiesced, himself decidedly curious despite all the work that awaited them back at the resort. It was her birthday, he told himself; he could allow her this. They paused in time for Alphonse to sing out again, "Come out, come out!" Somewhere in the trees, Leslie caught a flash of blue denim, recognizing Chester's outfit, the same one he'd been wearing the day before. He sidled nimbly across a tree branch, coming right out into the open long enough for them to see him hurl a coconut at something behind a large bush that flanked the road on the far side. Even from this distance they heard the thud as it connected, followed by a sickly masculine giggle, a moan, and then silence.

From somewhere else they faintly heard Cornelius hollering, "You won't be free for long, Tattoo. You can't get away, you might as well come out!" Then his voice fell silent, and for a moment there was nothing but the shrill _yaaaa!_ of a peacock—and then the unmistakable roar of an enraged tiger. The last thing they heard as Roarke finally herded Leslie back to the car was Cornelius' frantic scream for help. Leslie, doubled over laughing, could barely get into the car, and Roarke chuckled along with her, glad to see her finally relieved of the last vestiges of worry over Tattoo.

‡ ‡ ‡

It had been a long afternoon, partially taken up by the resolution of the Ewell fantasy; suppertime wasn't far away, but Mana'olana had yet to come in and inform them as to what was on the menu. Leslie's stomach had started growling and she was beginning to lose her patience. Roarke, deeply engrossed in paperwork, toiled steadily on; Leslie doggedly plowed on with her book, but the closer she got to the end, the more her stomach demanded attention.

Then someone entered the inner foyer and Roarke glanced up for about a quarter of a second, just long enough to take note of the ragged clothing the man wore. Already returning to the mess on the desk, he held up a hand and said, "No, I'm sorry, I don't give handouts to vagrants. However, if you're willing to work, there is plenty to do in the kitchen."

The "vagrant" in the inner foyer lifted his hands and protested, "It's me, Cornelius!"

Startled, Roarke took a closer look, and Leslie lifted her head at the same time to stare. "Oh, I am so sorry!" Roarke exclaimed, getting up from the desk and coming around to get an even better look. "I didn't recognize you! Why—you look _terrible."_

"N-never mind the way I look," Cornelius said dismissively, eyeing Roarke with a distinctly frantic look about him. "We brought him back." Roarke looked over Cornelius' shoulder but saw no one in the foyer.

"You did?" Leslie blurted before she could stop herself.

"Yeah. Look—forget the million dollars. Give us ten thousand dollars, and he's yours, free and clear."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I—" Roarke started to put a conspiratorial arm across Cornelius' shoulders, then reconsidered, as Cornelius was quite a dirty mess. Instead, Roarke planted a hand between the other man's shoulder blades and drew him aside, as if trying to keep Leslie from overhearing. Of course, she could make out every word. "I really don't think I want him back just now. Everything's been so nice and peaceful during his absence, you know?"

"Five thousand," suggested Cornelius, a hint of true desperation creeping into his voice. Roarke merely lifted his hand from Cornelius' back, shook his head, blew off the dirt that had stuck to his fingers and dusted his hands. Cornelius tried again. "Uh…okay. A measly thousand. But that's my last offer."

Roarke regarded him for a second or two, then said thoughtfully, "No, I think the ten-thousand-dollar figure is acceptable."

Cornelius' face filled with gratitude. "I always said you were a very fair man."

Roarke smiled genially. "Then we have a deal. _You_ pay _me_ ten thousand to take him back."

Cornelius' lower jaw fell down. "Wha?"

Roarke raised his eyebrows curiously. "Then we have no deal?"

"But he's your friend!" wailed Cornelius. "Y'_gotta_ take him back!"

"I'm afraid not, I'm sorry," Roarke replied with finality, returning to the desk and sitting down. Leslie remained still and silent; it took all her effort to maintain her poker-faced expression.

"But—but where d'you expect me to come up with that kind of money?" Cornelius cried in disbelief.

Roarke looked up again. "Well, there is plenty to do in the kitchen," he offered. "Two of you working the dinner shift for tonight, breakfast and lunch for tomorrow, room-service orders…you do that, and I'll call it even. Why quibble over a few thousand dollars?"

Cornelius' expression had grown more and more horrified with every word Roarke said; now he growled, _"Never!"_

Without missing a beat, Roarke announced, "Tomorrow my price goes up."

"Done," Cornelius blurted in an instant and complete turnaround, stretching his hand across the desk at Roarke. Leslie gazed on, struggling not to smile. Roarke stood up then as Cornelius, staring at him with a defeated look, called sadly, "Alphonse…bring him in. Hubba hubba!" He sounded on the verge of tears.

Instantly a wall of noise moved into the study as Alphonse pushed a broadly smiling Tattoo inside and Chester and Pepper, making all manner of simian and avian commentary, followed faithfully along. Leslie's hand went to her mouth in a vain attempt to hide her grin; Alphonse looked almost as bad as Cornelius did. She saw Tattoo wink secretly at her and giggled loudly. Cornelius was too dejected and Alphonse too excited to notice.

"How much didja get, chief?" Alphonse demanded eagerly.

"He got six hundred," Roarke chimed in, returning Tattoo's smile with a conspiratorial look.

Alphonse stared at Cornelius with incredulous disgust. "Six hundred bucks??" Cornelius just went on staring at Roarke, as if the world had come to an ignominious end.

"No," Roarke corrected him, "six hundred chickens." In the foyer, Pepper squawked and chuckled gleefully. "That's how many you have to clean for the banquet tonight." Alphonse, with a _you gotta be kidding me!_ look, turned to Tattoo as if trying to confirm this; Tattoo just grinned at him without a single word. Roarke pointed toward the foyer. "You can't miss the kitchen—it's right down the corridor." Just in case he hadn't been completely clear, Tattoo gestured in the same direction, smiling serenely at Alphonse. Roarke watched, grinning; by now Leslie was shaking with pent-up glee.

Finally, dragging their feet, Cornelius and Alphonse turned and shuffled slowly away in the direction of the kitchen. Roarke simply couldn't resist a parting shot, and called after them, "Oh, and uh…happy chicken flickin'!"

The words, so incongruous coming from the elegant Roarke, broke through Leslie's control at last, and she dissolved into laughter. "That's if Mana'olana doesn't throw you guys out! At least they'll have some comic relief in there," she chortled at her guardian and his assistant. "They get to watch two turkeys cleaning chickens!" She collapsed in her chair, overcome with delight.

Roarke and Tattoo both burst into laughter as well, and Cornelius and Alphonse shot them all heavily wounded looks before Cornelius confessed to Alphonse, "I never flicked a chicken before. Whaddaya do, first you flick the chicken and then you boil the water, or boil the water and then you flick the chicken?" Alphonse threw both arms into the air in a _beats the hell outta me _gesture; with that they disappeared down the hallway, leaving behind a grunting chimp, an indifferent parrot, and three laughing humans.

Tattoo paused in front of Leslie and squeezed her hands, just as Roarke came to stand behind her. Tattoo caught his breath and asked, "Miss me, boss?"

"Oh yes," Roarke assured him and leaned over Leslie's shoulder. She finally regained some control over herself and beamed at Tattoo in agreement. "Yes, my friend," Roarke concluded, grasping Tattoo's hand, "home just wasn't the same without you."

"So," Tattoo said to Leslie, "it looks like I'll be able to help you celebrate your birthday after all. That'll give my pals something else to do—they can help the servers at your party after they're done with the banquet preparations."

"They're going to need new suits," Leslie informed them solemnly, and the three of them burst out laughing all over again.

§ § § -- May 7, 1979

Back at the amusement park on Monday morning, they sent off all their other guests before Alphonse and Cornelius, whose original clothing had been repaired but still looked much the worse for wear, approached them warily. Alphonse was still clad in the same clothes, mysteriously smeared with soot, that he'd been wearing all weekend. Roarke brightened when he saw them. "Cornelius, Alphonse, I want you to know you did a fine job in the kitchen, and you were also excellent servers at Leslie's birthday party last evening. Any time you want a steady job, it's yours."

"Forget it," snorted Cornelius, grumpy from too little sleep the previous night and apparently revolted by the idea of spending the rest of his days plucking chickens. "All we wanna do is get on that balloon and go back to the mainland."

"Oh," Cindy said sweetly, "I'm afraid today's flight's all booked up."

Roarke nodded and reminded them, "Even if it weren't, you still owe me quite a bit of money for Tattoo's, uh, rescue…but don't worry, I've made other arrangements for your trip back. You can work your way over on board the boat."

Alphonse started to ask a question, and Tattoo supplied, "The _S.S. Dumpwell_. It's a garbage scow." This he said with a smirk.

"Yes," Roarke confirmed, and Cornelius winced both visibly and audibly, making Roarke grin. Something caught his attention and he noticed a barrel-shaped, bearded man clad in denim, a dirty red-and-white striped shirt and a nautical cap trotting up the rise in their direction. "Oh, here comes the skipper now. Don't—_don't_ make him mad. He has a _horrible_ reputation." He glanced down at a book in his hands and remembered one last thing. "Oh, and if you have any time—which I doubt very much you will—try reading this." He handed Leslie's weekend reading project to Cornelius, who took the book and peered at its title, then at Roarke, in confusion.

The skipper drew abreast of them and barked, "Snap it up, ya lubbers, and get read to stow yer gear. We sail with the tide, and I'll be wantin' to bilge yer drain before this. Heave to! _HEAVE!!"_ So saying, he herded them off down the clearing, and Tattoo waved after them cheerfully.

The last words they heard were those of Cornelius to Alphonse: "I never cleaned a bilge before. Whaddaya do, first you boil the water and then…" The rest was lost to distance.

Tattoo turned to the others and observed, "Gee, boss, I'm gonna miss them. It's not every day that I've got such good guys to play with." Roarke laughed softly, and Leslie and Cindy both giggled. "By the way," Tattoo added, "what was that book you gave them?"

Cindy glanced at Leslie, who grinned widely and informed him, "One they should've read before they came here—_The Ransom of Red Chief_, by O. Henry!"

§ § § -- April 6, 2006

Rory squawked with laughter throughout the narrative, and by the time they wound it up, Christian was shaking his head and Julie was giggling. "That sure sounds like Tattoo," she remarked. "Everybody underestimated him because of his size, but like you said, uncle, he had a real arsenal of tricks."

"Just because Tattoo was all too easy to overlook, and stunned everyone by disproving their assumptions, doesn't mean he didn't have his own moments of shock. He might laugh whenever Leslie showed how green she was in those early years, but from time to time he found himself facing some very unusual things. There was the weekend he accidentally drank a potion which, unfortunately, was still in progress…" Leslie let out a loud snicker, interrupting him, and together they related the story.


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- March 1, 1980

The weekend's two fantasies were well in hand, fortunately, for it was an unusually warm day for March, even in a tropical place such as Fantasy Island. Hazy heat shimmered in the air and there was almost no breeze. Leslie had gone to the pool with her friends, so the main house was quiet. Roarke was deeply absorbed in a book in the study, having unexpectedly found a spare hour or so that he could call his own. For some time he had been experimenting with a new potion for a future fantasy, but had reached a temporary impasse and was trying to divert himself so that he could come back to it later with a fresher outlook. Just as a reminder to himself, he had left the glass containing the colorless, transparent formula on the corner of his desk, so that when he was ready to return to the problem, it would be right there waiting for him.

The book he was reading was of such ancient vintage that he doubted anyone had ever heard of it; besides, it was in a foreign language of no earthly origin. It had been a favorite of his in his long-ago childhood, and every several years or so he came back to it. It never failed to engross him, to the point of such totality that he could utterly forget the world around him. So it was this time as well. In fact, Roarke had that in common with Leslie; they were both devoted bookworms, and it always warmed him when he saw Leslie curled up in a chair with a good book. He often regretted that he himself had so little time to read, but this merely heightened his enjoyment of it whenever he did manage to carve out an hour or two for it.

He was well and truly lost in the events of another time and another place when Tattoo, back from his routine rounds and a bit overheated, paused at the desk, mopping his brow. "Hi, boss," he said automatically, his mind on a tall, cold drink.

"…Hmm?" murmured Roarke after a moment.

Tattoo folded the handkerchief and stuffed it into his pocket, so thirsty that when he spied the glass on the desk, he found himself unduly interested in it. "Boss, what's in that glass?" he asked, thinking maybe he could have Mana'olana whip up some for him.

Roarke turned a page and said absently, "Uh…nothing, nothing." Tattoo eyed him, looked at the glass, then shrugged and promptly drained its contents. It was a little thick, but it tasted good going down and went a long way toward quenching his thirst.

"But I wouldn't drink it if I were you," Roarke said then.

Tattoo froze in place. "Why not?"

"It's a special formula that makes people invisible," Roarke replied.

"Invisible?" Tattoo echoed in horror.

"Mm-hmm," Roarke murmured again.

"_Sacre bleu!" _Tattoo gasped. The exclamation finally caught Roarke's attention and he looked up from the book for the first time, only to find himself apparently alone in the room. He sat up in his chair, puzzled.

"Tattoo, where are you?" he asked.

"I'm right here, boss, right here!" came Tattoo's frantic voice.

Roarke shook his head once, wondering if something was wrong with his eyesight. "Where? I can't see you," he protested.

"I'm right here in front of you and you can't see me?" Tattoo cried, panicking.

Again Roarke looked around the room but still saw no sign of his assistant; but something looked out of place, and he frowned and glanced down, only then seeing the empty glass. "Tattoo," he exclaimed, some horror now etched into his own features, "you didn't drink this, did you, huh?"

"I did, boss," Tattoo groaned in despair. "How long am I gonna be invisible?"

"Oh, that's simple, my friend," Roarke said with a fatalistic shrug. "When I can see you again." With that, he picked up the empty glass and left the room, headed back for the cellar to mix a new batch of the potion in its current form so that he could get back to work on it. Tattoo watched him leave, completely stunned, and then happened to notice his own hands. He turned them over as if they belonged to someone else.

"But how come I can see myself?" he wondered aloud. He cast one more anxious glance in the direction Roarke had gone, then sighed deeply and decided there was no point in making any more rounds, or indeed even leaving the premises, until the stuff wore off. And he was afraid he'd have to settle in for a good long wait. With that in mind, he wandered over to the bookshelves, wondering if Roarke happened to have any books that were written in French.

About an hour later Roarke came back into the room and stopped short when he saw an open book hovering in mid-air. "So you're still here, Tattoo," he said.

"Hi again, boss," Tattoo replied and sighed deeply.

Roarke shook his head a little. "My friend, quite frankly, seeing that book apparently floating all by itself is disconcerting enough as it is. But if you think it bothers me, imagine what would happen should a guest walk into the room and see it?"

The book abruptly dropped about a foot. "Oh," Tattoo's voice mumbled sheepishly. "I didn't think of that. Sorry, boss."

"I had thought you would be out making more rounds, at any rate," Roarke added, going to the desk and opening an ornate gold box in which he kept car keys.

"Looking like this?" Tattoo demanded incredulously.

"Looking like what?" Roarke countered. "May I remind you, my dear Tattoo, that you are invisible. You could be wearing a clown suit or a ballroom gown, or a barrel for that matter, and no one would ever know."

"That may be," Tattoo promptly shot back, "but think of all the heart-attack cases that the hospital would be swamped with if I tried to drive my car like this."

Roarke paused and considered this. "You have an excellent point, my friend," he conceded, taking out a set of keys and closing the gold box. "Well, in that case, I suppose there is nothing else to do but have you wait here. I'll have to get Leslie from the swimming pool, since you are...uh, out of commission at the moment." He sighed audibly as he crossed the room and remarked offhandedly, "I think it's time to begin teaching her how to drive."

"Well, leave me out of that," Tattoo said emphatically, picking up his book again.

Roarke stopped and would have given him an exasperated look, except that he didn't know exactly where to direct it. "Really, Tattoo," he said instead, and left the house before Tattoo could find another riposte.

At the pool, he spotted his ward sitting at a table with all five of her friends. Leslie was clearly surprised to see him. "Is something wrong, Mr. Roarke?" she asked.

"No…it's only that Tattoo had a slight mishap, and I may have to send you out to do some of his errands," Roarke told her and surveyed her friends. "Hello, girls. I'm afraid Leslie's free time has just ended, but if all is well, you might come by for her tomorrow."

Leslie's friends looked at one another in curiosity, but they didn't ask questions; like most of the islanders, they generally expected Roarke to be cryptic. They simply nodded in acceptance and said goodbye to Leslie, who waved back and trailed Roarke out of the pool area and to the car. "Where _is_ Tattoo?" she asked.

"At the house," Roarke said and then added under his breath, "I hope." Starting the car, he asked Leslie if she had enjoyed her swim, the answer to which kept her occupied for the short drive back to the main house. He parked the car near the fountain and followed her into the house, where once she got inside, she tossed her towel across a chair and started to lean down to remove her sandals.

Before she could move more than a fraction, or Roarke have time to react, the towel went flying right back into the air again. "Watch where you're throwing things!" squawked an indignant voice.

Leslie's eyes popped and stark terror radiated from her face; she stumbled backwards toward the stairs, and nearly tripped on the bottom step. As it was, she sat down hard enough to make Roarke wince on her behalf. Speechless, she gaped at Roarke and pointed at the chair, mouth open, eyes enormous and her entire arm shaking.

"Yes, I know," Roarke replied calmly, picking up the towel. "Take that upstairs, if you would be so kind, and then change your clothing." He watched Leslie attempt to gather her widely scattered wits for a long moment, while he stood holding the proffered towel at her and very carefully controlling a smile. Finally she took the towel from him and eased up the stairs backwards, one wary step at a time, all the while staring at the seemingly empty chair. Roarke watched her go for a moment, then shook his head and retreated behind his desk.

"I scared her to death, didn't I," Tattoo's voice remarked.

"Undoubtedly you shortened her lifespan by at least five years," Roarke agreed and spread out some balance sheets across the desk. Tattoo chuckled, and Roarke quirked a smile before putting his full attention to the paperwork.

It took Leslie an unusually long time to return downstairs, and when she did come back, she took the steps warily, carefully scanning the room. By then Roarke was adding up columns of figures, and the room was quiet. But when she finally stepped off the last stair tread and stopped there, Roarke looked up. "What's the matter, Leslie?"

"You said Tattoo was here," she said accusingly. "But he's not."

"Oh yes I am," Tattoo immediately responded, all wounded dignity. "I'm right in this room, the same as you. So you better watch out where you sit."

"I don't get it," Leslie finally exploded in exasperation. "Would someone kindly tell me what's going on around here, or are you having too much fun at my expense to bother?"

Roarke relented then, chuckling. "The reason you can't see Tattoo is because he accidentally drank the invisibility potion I've been working on," he explained to her. "So far he shows no signs of becoming visible again, and as you can see if you think it over, that makes it difficult for him to carry out most of his usual duties."

"Oh," said Leslie softly, drawing out the word as she considered the ramifications of this explanation. "So that's what this is all about. Well, then, Tattoo, if you don't want me accidentally squashing you, you might want to tell me which chair you're sitting in."

"The same one you threw the towel on," he said pointedly.

"Oh," she said again, this time sheepishly. "Sorry about that." She rounded the chair Tattoo claimed to be occupying and took the one beside it, all the while eyeing the first chair as if she expected Tattoo to abruptly reappear in it. "So what's it feel like?"

"What, being invisible? I don't feel any different," Tattoo said. Silence fell for about fifteen seconds; then he lost patience. "What're you _staring_ at?"

"Nothing," Leslie answered before she thought; then she gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth, her guilty gaze shifting to Roarke, who burst out laughing. Stricken then by the funny side of her remark, she slumped in her chair, convulsed with giggles.

"Oh, very funny," snapped Tattoo in irritation. "You know, I'm not so sure you two aren't playing a little joke on me. I can see myself, after all, so how do I know the two of you can't see me?"

"Honest, Tattoo, I can't see you," Leslie insisted, trying to control her merriment. "I know you're in that chair only because you say you are, but…" At that point Tattoo, testing her, picked up the book he had laid aside earlier. From Leslie's point of view it suddenly floated off the floor, and she yanked her entire upper torso to one side, shock all over her face. "Oh my God," she blurted.

"Well, I suppose that proves _you_ can't see me at least," Tattoo said. "Come on, boss, tell me the truth…you can see me, right?"

"No, Tattoo, I can't," Roarke said serenely, having regained his composure.

"Really, boss, you can tell me," Tattoo persisted.

Roarke shook his head. "Truly, my friend, I can't see you at all. In actual fact, that wasn't my intention with regard to that potion. It leaves far too much room for malicious intent, and I can't have that. I'll have to adjust the formula again."

"I would too," Leslie said, shuddering slightly despite the heat. "It's really creepy not knowing if somebody's there or not—look what Tattoo did to me when I first walked in here with you." A shutter banged closed then on one of the windows and she started violently in her seat, gasping loudly.

"Tattoo," Roarke admonished.

"Just checking, boss," Tattoo said blithely.

"I believe we have established that you cannot be seen by anyone, and certainly not by Leslie," Roarke reminded him a little testily. "If I had any doubt that the formula isn't ready for use, you have utterly eradicated it. Enough is enough."

"Oh, all right, boss," Tattoo said, sighing. "But I can't help myself. I'm bored and I was just trying to have a little fun."

"I can live without that kind of fun," Leslie said shortly.

Roarke resumed adding figures. "Perhaps you'd better return home after all, Tattoo," he said. "You can't do much in your current situation, and there is no way to know when the formula will wear off. So consider this an afternoon off."

"Oh, okay, thanks, boss!" Tattoo said, sounding considerably more cheerful. They heard the sounds of his shoes crossing the floor and climbing the steps into the foyer; the door opened, then closed again. Leslie blew out a breath and relaxed at last.

"Thank you," she said wholeheartedly to Roarke. "I might've gotten up and throttled him if you hadn't done that…that is, if I could've found him first."

Roarke laughed again. "Have a little patience, child. Any potion, by its very nature, is temporary, so Tattoo won't be able to enjoy his transparent state permanently."

‡ ‡ ‡

Tattoo got a few odd looks Monday morning at the plane dock as they bid their guests farewell, but neither he nor Roarke nor Leslie let on that anything was amiss, so that they sent several people off with distinctly bewildered expressions. When the plane had taxied away across the lagoon, Roarke checked his gold pocket watch, gazed thoughtfully at Tattoo without really focusing on him, and remarked absently, "I have quite a full schedule today, and that includes some further tinkering with that formula."

Tattoo scowled in discomfort. "Boss, cut it out," he finally protested. "It's as if you're looking right through me."

"Maybe that's because he is," Leslie suggested wickedly and adroitly dodged the swat he aimed at her—for Tattoo, while finally visible again, was transparent!

"Leslie, that will do," said Roarke mildly. "And, incidentally, I must ask you to come straight home from school today. You'll have to take on some of Tattoo's errands, since he won't be able to do anything today."

"Why not?" demanded Tattoo warily.

"Well, my friend, since you've already proven that the formula still needs work, you'll have to be my…uh, guinea pig. There's the car, Leslie…have a good day in school."

Leslie nodded and then eyed Tattoo as the station wagon stopped nearby. "Don't look so upset, Tattoo," she suggested. "You've made history—the first invisible man in the world, outside movies."

"Get out of here!" Tattoo snapped, patience completely exhausted now, and took a threatening step or two towards her. She scrambled into the car, but as it pulled away, both Roarke and Tattoo could hear her laughter. Tattoo threw his hands into the air and turned to Roarke. "Boss, isn't there any way we can keep this a secret?"

Roarke studied him and his ghostlike appearance. "I very much doubt it, with the way you look now," he said frankly. "Half the island has already seen you in this state, so I daresay it's a bit late to keep this under wraps."

"Not only that," Tattoo groused, "but Leslie's probably gonna tell her friends all about it in school today. If that's her way of paying me back for teasing her yesterday afternoon, then I'd say we're even by now. _Zut alors_, I'll never live this one down."

"And whose fault is that?" Roarke said pointedly, leading the way to a jeep parked nearby and climbing inside. Tattoo hastily followed suit, and Roarke started the vehicle. "You know, Tattoo, there's a certain cliché you might be wise to keep in mind from now on."

"What cliché would that be?" Tattoo asked, eyeing him warily.

" 'Curiosity killed the cat'," Roarke quoted and pulled out onto the Ring Road.

"Thanks a lot, boss," grumbled Tattoo and glared blackly at the passing scenery all the way back to the main house. Roarke sighed gently and reflected that it was probably going to be a very long day.

§ § § -- April 6, 2006

Speaking loudly to be heard over Christian's and Julie's laughter and Rory's gleeful howling, Leslie put in, "What about the time he tried to fool us with that dummy?"

Roarke nodded recollection, his eyes warming. "Ah yes. I remember it well."

"Father wasn't above playing a little trick or two," Leslie said with a grin, catching but ignoring Roarke's deliberately blank look. "Here's what happened…"

§ § § -- May 17, 1980

"You've been doing this all day long," Leslie complained to Tattoo, watching him set up a ventriloquist's dummy in Roarke's chair. "I'm trying to study for my final exams, for Pete's sake. You're really distracting me."

Tattoo gave her a look. "Can't you do your studying in the evening, when the boss doesn't need you for stuff? Besides, you're the one who always goes so crazy to help him out every weekend. Give yourself a break."

"I can't," Leslie said. "Even Mr. Roarke told me I'd better get in whatever studying I can, whenever I can. He wants to see me make it to tenth grade as much as I do." Leslie had just turned fifteen, and she was within a couple of weeks of completing the ninth grade; the next week would begin final-exam week and she had been nervous about it for the last several days, prompting Roarke to suggest she study as much as possible.

Tattoo grunted, "You know what they say about all work and no play." She shot him a dirty look, which he ignored. Instead he inserted one hand into the dummy's back and experimentally maneuvered the controls that opened and closed the mouth, then made the dummy "say" a few phrases in French—without once trying to disguise the movement of his lips—while Leslie watched, helplessly distracted.

"You know, you can outpaint Picasso and Renoir, but you'll never be the next Edgar Bergen," she finally told him.

"You just wait," Tattoo retorted, and she shrugged. Just then they heard the outer door open, and he winked at her and ducked behind Roarke's chair, leaving the dummy sitting there by itself and Leslie apparently keeping it company.

Roarke came in, preoccupied with a report, and stepped into the study with a quick greeting glance at Leslie. Before either he or she could speak, however, Tattoo's voice came out from behind the chair. "Hi, big fellow. Whaddaya want? Oh, I bet you have a big problem!" He let out a chuckle, and Leslie shook her head and rolled her eyes expressively. Roarke followed suit, rounded the desk and peered pointedly behind the chair at Tattoo.

"Actually, I am Mr. Roarke, your boss, and I am in a hurry," he said crisply. "Leslie, are you studying?"

"Trying to," she grumbled, and to her surprise, he smiled briefly with understanding as Tattoo sheepishly emerged from behind the chair.

"Oh, hi boss," he said, peering hopefully up at Roarke, who had flipped open a large book on the desk and was rapidly leafing through pages. "How do you like our new act? Do you think we're ready to go on the stage?"

Slowly Leslie turned her head and stared at him, and thus caught Roarke's initial expression of disbelief before he seemed to think of something and then turned to Tattoo with a knowing little smile. "Let me see you do it without moving your lips. Go ahead."

Tattoo tried, but all he did was emit a long series of muffled grunts and mumbles, while Leslie watched with a wide-open smirk and Roarke looked on, his expression saying _Well, there you are._ Tattoo sighed and leaned onto the desk. "Well, boss, I think we need a little more practice."

"You're telling me," Leslie couldn't resist murmuring under her breath.

Tattoo heard, but he had no chance to do more than cast her a _be quiet!_ look before they both saw the dummy's head swivel a full 180 degrees till it was looking at Tattoo. In a high-pitched voice it said, "You sure do! Let's go to your place and rehearse!"

"That's a good idea—" Then it sank in, and Tattoo jerked back around to stare at the dummy while Leslie blinked at it, mouth wide open. The dummy had sounded unmistakably like Roarke attempting (with no success whatsoever) to disguise his voice. Leslie looked at her guardian, but he seemed to be completely engrossed in his report and gave no indication at all that he had any clue what was going on.

"Hey, boss! He talked!" Tattoo burst out, gesturing at the dummy.

Roarke looked up, as if he had no idea what Tattoo meant, then raised his brows and remarked, "Really? That's amazing, Tattoo!" He clucked his tongue a few times and turned back to the book. And a moment later, the dummy's head turned back around, and suddenly Tattoo seemed to get it.

"Boss…? _You_ did it," Tattoo said with a knowing grin.

Roarke looked up again. "What?" he asked blankly.

"Come on, boss, you did it!" Tattoo insisted, grinning. Leslie watched the byplay, sure that Roarke had in fact been responsible for the dummy's act, but enjoying witnessing Tattoo's reaction. Roarke, for his part, stared in utter confusion at his assistant, and Tattoo ventured, "Didn't you?" If anything, Roarke looked even more confused, perhaps a touch annoyed as well, then turned back to his work with another headshake. Leslie watched the bewildered Tattoo turn to the dummy and nudge its shoulder questioningly, trying to get it to respond; and that was when Roarke, apparently catching the movement out of the corner of his eye, sneaked a look at Tattoo and smiled, just a little, before winking at Leslie and going back to his report once more. She smirked again, quickly hid it before Tattoo saw it, and diligently bent her head to her books.

§ § § -- April 6, 2006

"Leslie Enstad, you fraud!" Christian accused teasingly, and she broke into laughter. "Poor Tattoo, he must have been left wondering all those years who really did that!"

"I doubt that," Roarke noted dryly. "He was into another hobby within days, and no more mention was ever made of that ventriloquism act."

"What he really wanted to do," Leslie said, "was grant fantasies. He sure gave it his best shot…several times, actually. I still remember the fall of that same year, the first time you faced Mephistopheles after I'd come here. What a nerve-killer that was."

"Just how many times have you gone up against Mephistopheles anyway?" Christian wanted to know. "Sometimes it seems as if you have to confront him every six months."

"Occasionally I feel that way myself," Roarke quipped, and they laughed. "We're long-time nemeses, I must admit. But at that time, it had been a good decade or more since we had butted heads, and I was a little slow to understand what was really happening when my guest proved to be unusually secretive about her fantasy."


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- October 22, 1980

Early Wednesday morning, Roarke checked his schedule for the upcoming weekend and frowned. There it was: Amanda Breem. Beneath that name, penciled in with Leslie's surprisingly small half-print, half-cursive, was a scrawl in Tattoo's handwriting that Roarke couldn't decipher. For the past two days, Tattoo had been unusually scarce around them, dropping in momentarily on a few occasions just to say hello and then running off with claims that he was incredibly busy and had to hurry and get going. As a result, Roarke had found it necessary to rely more on Leslie to get things done that he would normally have had Tattoo accomplish, and she'd so far had no free time at all after school that week. Now he had at least part of the answer to his question: it appeared that Tattoo had scheduled someone's fantasy and was taking it upon himself to make the preparations. But just whose fantasy was it?

"Leslie?" he called up the stairs, wondering if she knew anything about it.

She came down a moment later, dressed in faded blue jeans and a pink blouse accented with tiny pink satin bows on the short sleeves. She was still barefoot and carried a brush in one hand, running it through her hair as she descended the stairs and approached the desk. "Is something wrong, Mr. Roarke?" she asked.

"Have you seen this?" he asked, pointing at the names written in for the weekend just ahead. She leaned over and eyed his date book, frowning slightly.

"Well," she said after some thought, "I remember writing in Amanda Breem's name, but I don't know where that other one came from. I can't even read it."

"Understandable; neither can I. It appears to be Tattoo's handwriting, but normally it's far more legible." Roarke sighed deeply and shook his head. "This will be a difficult enough weekend without any additional problems."

"How so?" Leslie asked.

"When you showed me Amanda Breem's letter in late July and cited its vagueness, you told me it was confusing because she gave so little detail, yet seemed so desperate," he explained. "I recall that you weren't certain whether you should schedule her fantasy or have a rejection letter sent, and that was why you consulted me. I realize that you see a great many fantasy requests, but think about it."

Leslie's gaze slid out of focus and strayed to the shuttered windows, while she tried to pull up the memory. Three months had passed since Amanda Breem's letter had initially arrived, and as Roarke had said, she sorted through countless letters at least three times a week. Mail to the main house was so voluminous that it had to be delivered seven days a week, year-round, though Roarke had insisted that Christmas Day be an exception. Since late in her ninth-grade year, one of Leslie's tasks had been to go through the mail most days and cull out fantasy requests, scheduling or rejecting them according to a short list of criteria Roarke had given her. Occasionally a letter would stand out in her memory, but she was having some trouble recalling this one. Her eyes slid shut as she struggled to remember a day in midsummer.

Finally something vague surfaced from the back of her brain somewhere, and she turned to her guardian. "Well…I do remember that when I saw that letter, it didn't give enough information for me to go on, according to your rules, so I showed it to you." Speaking the words aloud seemed to spur her memory, and she brightened. "Oh, and you told me to go ahead and schedule it, but make sure it was for the one-year anniversary of the date she mentioned in the letter. That was the first fantasy I wrote in for October."

"I see," said Roarke. "Apparently you had some difficulty making a second choice, or else you never had the opportunity to do so."

"I was scheduling stuff for September at that point," Leslie said. "When it was time to fill in October dates, it was the middle of August and I could see that the other slot for that weekend was already booked up, so I figured that was that and didn't think any more about it." She peered at the illegible scribble. "I guess Tattoo took advantage of it."

"I believe you're right. Very well, Leslie, thank you. Go ahead and finish getting ready for school, and we'll have some breakfast. Perhaps if Tattoo isn't too caught up in his preparations for granting this fantasy, he might join us." He raised an ironic eyebrow, and Leslie snickered on her way back to the staircase.

§ § § -- October 25, 1980

At the plane dock, Roarke found himself staring at a bespectacled little man with a shock of nondescript brown hair. "This is strange!" he exclaimed. "Isn't that Mr. Fred Catlett, the young man from Lincoln, Nebraska whose fantasy I rejected?"

"Twice," Leslie said, nodding.

"Don't worry, boss," Tattoo spoke up. "I'll handle it myself."

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other long enough to register their mutual _aha, so __that's__ what's going on!_ expressions, then both peered at Tattoo, Roarke looking decidedly displeased. "Tattoo, do you mean to tell me that you brought Mr. Catlett here without my permission?"

"Well," Tattoo said, subdued, "you did say that I could handle a fantasy of my own…"

"Correction: I said that you could handle a very _simple_ fantasy, at a later date. If memory serves me correctly, Mr. Catlett's fantasy is to become an instant millionaire."

"Well, that sounds simple enough to me," Tattoo protested.

Roarke's eyebrows shot up. "Simple it is…so long as you have one million dollars to instantly give Mr. Catlett so he can become an instant millionaire."

Tattoo's expression grew worried. "Does that mean I have to provide the million dollars myself?" Roarke simply shrugged, raising his eyebrows again, and Tattoo glanced away, clearly wondering what he'd gotten himself into this time. Leslie decoded then and there that she wasn't going anywhere near this fantasy!

Now a haunted-looking blonde woman strode down the dock, and Roarke introduced her: "Mrs. Amanda Breem, from Philadelphia."

"Boss, she's beautiful!" exclaimed Tattoo. "Is she looking for romance?"

"No, Tattoo, she is very much in love with her husband," said Roarke, inducing a smile from Leslie. _Poor Tattoo and his never-ending search for romance, _she thought with amusement. "As a matter of fact," Roarke continued, "for the last year, she's devoted herself to nursing him back to health after a terrible accident. He almost lost his life."

"Then what's her fantasy?" asked Tattoo.

"Her fantasy, Tattoo, is to save her own life now." Roarke's gaze grew distant, and Leslie found herself staring at their latest guest as well. She didn't remember the exact details of Mrs. Breem's letter, but she did recall that there had been little, if any, detail as to just why she had the fantasy she did.

"Someone's trying to kill her?" Tattoo questioned.

"She has not told me," Roarke replied. "But in her case I have made an exception. She will tell me the rest when she is ready." That was when his drink arrived. "My dear guests! I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island!"

‡ ‡ ‡

Perhaps half an hour later, Roarke—who had indeed tapped Leslie to assist him with this fantasy, since Tattoo had so blatantly chosen to devote himself to granting one of his own—brought his ward out of the main house so they could go to pick up Amanda Breem, only to be waylaid by Tattoo on the front steps. "Just the man I have to see," Tattoo said.

"Yes, Tattoo, what is it?" Roarke asked briskly.

"Mr. Catlett," Tattoo said. "He wants his million dollars."

Roarke fixed him with a baleful look. "Well, I'm sorry to be so blunt, Tattoo, but I have no intention of providing you with one million dollars for Mr. Catlett's fantasy." Tattoo started to protest, but Roarke cut him off, a spark of mild anger in his voice. "The case is closed! In future, perhaps, you will extend the courtesy of checking with me in advance—hmm?" Tattoo stared at him in worried disbelief while he turned to Leslie. "Come along, Leslie," he said and guided her towards the car. She didn't dare look back, for fear Tattoo might try to ask her to intercede for him.

Instead she looked up at her guardian. "What do you think he'll do?"

Roarke let out an exasperated sigh. "To be perfectly honest, I haven't the slightest idea, and I certainly won't lose any sleep over it. It's none of my concern, nor yours either, young lady. Tattoo decided entirely on his own to take on this responsibility, so he can grant the fantasy entirely on his own as well." So saying, he got into the car and started it; she settled hastily into the passenger seat, unable to resist watching Tattoo retreat into the house. In her thoughts she wished him luck.

They pulled up in front of a bungalow and Roarke knocked on the door, which flew open almost immediately. "Oh, hello, Mr. Roarke!" exclaimed Amanda Breem. She was a slender, almost petite woman with a delicate face and shoulder-length light-blonde hair. Most folks, they were to learn, called her Mandy, especially her husband, whom she had left behind in Pennsylvania. "Thank you for coming for me."

"You're welcome," Roarke replied. "This is my ward, Leslie Hamilton, who is fifteen; my regular assistant is, uh, otherwise occupied this weekend, so she will be providing whatever assistance may be needed."

Mandy returned Leslie's smile. "Hello, Leslie. Okay, Mr. Roarke, I'm ready."

"Very well." Roarke stood aside to let Mandy out, then gestured Leslie ahead of him; she took the middle seat while Mandy sat up front with Roarke. On their way down the Ring Road, Roarke attempted a conversation, but Mandy replied in monosyllables, staring anxiously at the passing scenery. After a couple of failed attempts, Roarke desisted; Leslie saw him toss the oblivious Mandy a deeply concerned look.

After about ten minutes Roarke pulled up to a small rocky outcropping overlooking the ocean, with Coral Island barely visible on the horizon about twenty miles distant. The threesome got out and approached the edge, which revealed a short but steep drop of some fifty feet to the ocean breaking on the cliff. "This is Cabal de Varga," Roarke said.

"It's very beautiful," Mandy gave the obligatory reply.

"The natives say there are evil spirits here," Roarke observed. Leslie, picking her way along in his wake, gave him a slightly startled glance, which he missed.

"Do you believe them, Mr. Roarke?" Mandy asked.

"Oh, I believe our islanders are sometimes very wise, Mrs. Breem." They stopped, Mandy a couple of feet ahead of Roarke. "Are you sure you want me to leave you here alone?"

Mandy's gaze strayed out over the open Pacific. "I need to be by myself," she said. "Find some answers."

Roarke watched her, then prompted, "And then I hope you'll be ready to tell me the rest of your fantasy."

"Soon, Mr. Roarke," Mandy replied distantly. "Soon."

"A problem shared is a problem already half solved," Roarke said. "Do not keep it to yourself too long." So saying, he took Leslie's hand, and they left Mandy alone on the cliff.

"How vague can you get?" Leslie muttered when she was sure they were out of Mandy's earshot. Roarke only shook his head.

"We had better give her time," he said, "or we may drive her away completely. Come along now—there are things to be done at the main house."

"Not much, I bet," Leslie offered. "I mean, since Tattoo's got the other fantasy…"

She let the subject die aborning when Roarke didn't deign to respond, and the ride home passed in silence. Roarke seemed to be deep in thought, and she didn't want to disturb him. She considered Tattoo's apparent dilemma and wondered how in the world he intended to solve it; if somehow she ever saw him long enough to start a decent conversation with him, she was determined to ask him what was happening. _Preferably not in Mr. Roarke's presence, though,_ she decided with a sidelong glance at her guardian.

Leslie poked through the mail when they returned to the deserted study and weeded out the fantasy-request letters; they were almost always easy for her to spot, for the vast majority of them came from individuals. A few arrived on corporate letterhead, and these generally came from workaholic CEOs or, occasionally, royalty whose personal secretaries wrote on their behalf. Roarke had taught her early on that bills arrived in envelopes with little cellophane windows in them; she was to cull out the items on letterhead as well as regular envelopes. This was Leslie's favorite task; she especially liked seeing the distinctive red-and-blue striping on air-mail envelopes, for these tended to come from places other than North America. She had a little game in which she made a guess at the country of origin before she actually looked at the stamp; math wasn't her strong suit, but she estimated roughly that she had about a ten-percent success rate.

She had just started thumbing through the newest stack of mail when she realized that Roarke wasn't moving at all, and looked up. He was staring with perplexity and suspicion at a yellow box, with a white lid lying beside it, that sat atop his desk. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"This box," he murmured, half to himself. "The package arrived as expected…but why is it empty?"

Leslie peered over the edge of the box and saw that he was right. "I don't know," she said unnecessarily, just for something to say.

He glanced at her, then softened a little and smiled. "Pay me no attention, Leslie," he said. "It's just that I have a feeling it's going to be a very unusual weekend." She smiled back and settled in her chair to devote her full attention to the mail, thinking to herself that her guardian had a keen knack for understatement. The fantasies were barely under way, and already nothing was going as expected.

About two hours later, long after Leslie had completed sorting the mail and was reading, Roarke had finally gotten started going through some reports; but he didn't get very far, for Mandy Breem entered the house, looking eager. "Mr. Roarke, I'm ready to tell you the rest of my fantasy now."

Roarke gestured at her to take one of the chairs. "By all means, Mrs. Breem," he said, watching her expectantly. Leslie closed her book and looked on with interest.

"My fantasy," Mandy said carefully, "is to have a Queen Omega orchid."

Roarke stared at her, frowned and started to speak, but Leslie beat him to it. "A what?" she said blankly. She'd never heard of such a thing.

Mandy nodded. "It's got to be potted—not cut—and it's got to be blooming," she said intensely to Roarke.

Leslie could see her guardian struggling to make sense of the request. "I…I thought you wanted to save your life!"

"Oh, it _will_ save my life, believe me," Mandy assured him.

Roarke stared into the corner of the room, looking very doubtful. "To find one blooming at this time of the year…I really don't know."

"You mean there really is such a flower?" Leslie asked in surprise.

"Yes, but it's extremely rare," Roarke said, clearly directing his words at Mandy as well as Leslie. "I am not sure even I can find one, particularly one in bloom."

"It's _got_ to be blooming," Mandy exclaimed frantically, springing out of her seat with a panicky look on her face. "It's my fantasy!"

Roarke pinned her with a look. "My dear Mrs. Breem," he said, rising, "you told me your life is in danger, and now you ask for a flower? Should I not be…uh, perplexed?" _At the very least,_ Leslie added mentally, staring at Mandy curiously.

"You guaranteed to supply me with whatever I needed," Mandy persisted.

Roarke studied her with enormous suspicion. "What is it that you're not telling me?"

Mandy's expression shut down and she glared at him. "Mr. Roarke, if you can't provide me with the orchid, please just say so!"

They stood in a charged silence, Mandy looking annoyed and Roarke with a frosty gleam in his dark eyes. Leslie watched them both closely. After a moment Roarke backed down, giving Mandy a chilly, formal nod and a smile devoid of warmth. "Very well, Mrs. Breem. You shall have your Queen Omega orchid." Mandy relaxed and smiled at him gratefully, sighing with relief. Leslie's gaze shifted to the opening door then, and Roarke caught the movement as well, a trace of warmth back in his gaze. "In the meantime, there is someone here to see you." He nodded toward the foyer, where a tall handsome man leaning on a cane stood waiting.

"Mandy?" he said, a little hesitantly.

She turned sharply, stared at him, then brightened with pure joy. "Phillip!" she cried out, and Leslie realized the newcomer must be Mandy's husband. "What're you doing here?" She rushed across the room and hugged him as he stepped carefully down from the foyer.

"I was worried," Phillip Breem said. "You left such a strange note!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, darling, I was just so depressed—but everything's going to be all right now." She cast Roarke another profoundly grateful look as she said this, and he nodded faintly, smiling slightly for Phillip's benefit. "Please," Mandy begged Phillip, "please, just be patient with me for just a little while longer. I'll explain it all later."

"In the meantime," Roarke put in, "I suggest you enjoy the many pleasures of Fantasy Island." Polite though it was, it was still a dismissal.

"Goodbye," Mandy said happily and led Phillip out the door. Roarke stared after them and slowly sat down again, trying to puzzle out this odd new development.

"This is really turning out to be a weird weekend," Leslie said, shaking her head a few times. "First Tattoo granting that fantasy, and then this empty package, and now Mandy Breem comes in here claiming a flower's going to save her life."

Her remark diverted Roarke's attention to the box that sat on the desk in front of him. "Oh, believe me, Leslie, that package wasn't empty when it got here," he said. "The mystery is, what happened to its contents?"

"Chester or Pepper?" Leslie suggested.

Roarke smiled. "No, I don't believe so. We've not seen Tattoo since first meeting Mrs. Breem this morning, and if that package contained what it was supposed to, there may be a connection between that and Tattoo's pet project." His smile grew mysterious and a sparkle lit his dark eyes.

Leslie pretended to grumble. "I hate it when you get all cryptic and don't let me in on the secret," she said, giving him a hooded look. But he saw the smile tugging at her mouth, and chuckled softly at her, bringing out her lurking grin in spite of herself.

"That's as may be," he said, "but we have more pressing matters to take care of. Why don't you go down to the kitchen and see what we're to have for lunch, and tell the staff not to expect Tattoo. If he does appear, it'll be a pleasant surprise." His wry tone made her laugh, and he grinned back. "In the meantime, I have several telephone calls to make—I must see if I can locate a blooming Queen Omega orchid before I take more drastic measures."

She paused in the foyer. "Like hunting one down in the jungle, you mean?"

"Something like that," said Roarke, his tone drier than ever. "Go ahead, please, and thank you." She heard him pick up the phone and start punching out numbers as she left the study, and told herself she might do well to look up Queen Omega orchids in an encyclopedia somewhere, the first chance she got.

§ § § -- October 25, 1980

The Saturday-night luau was on as usual, with the plane-dock band performing for the assembled guests and a lavish buffet laid out. Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie, the latter toting a large potted plant, made the rounds, greeting vacationers here and there. At one point Leslie turned to Tattoo and asked, "How's Mr. Catlett's fantasy going?"

"Great," Tattoo replied airily. "No trouble at all."

"Indeed?" inquired Roarke, peering curiously at him. "Apparently you and Mr. Catlett have been painting the island red, as it were, since you've been quite scarce all afternoon. I assume you obtained the million dollars he wanted?"

"Sure did, boss," Tattoo said with a confident nod. "Nothing to worry about."

"If you say so," Leslie said, shrugging in tacit acceptance and scanning the buffet table near which they stood. Something tempting caught her eye and she balanced the flowerpot in one hand, reaching out with the other and treating herself to a chunk of pineapple.

"Later, Leslie," Roarke said. "There will be plenty left, I assure you." He settled one hand between her shoulder blades and guided her along, plainly searching for someone. In another moment he spotted their objective and brought Leslie over, pausing within Phillip Breem's line of sight. Phillip brightened.

"Well, Mr. Roarke," he observed, smiling, "you certainly know how to throw a party."

"Thank you," Roarke replied and gestured at the pot Leslie held. "This is for you, Mrs. Breem." Leslie, taking the cue, handed the pot with its large, pale-pink blossoms to Mandy, smiling politely at her. "An _Albaform_ of _Paphiopedilum Omegii_—the Queen Omega orchid." Leslie watched the fragile-looking blossoms tremble as Mandy accepted the pot. She hadn't had the chance yet to search for information on this flower, but she did wonder whether it was unique to Fantasy Island, if it was as rare as Roarke had said. He had spent most of the afternoon tracking down this one, and Leslie wasn't sure where he'd procured it, for he had insisted she stay behind when he left suddenly around three that afternoon. Evidently he'd had to get it in some special, secret place, she surmised.

Mandy stared at the flower; like most people, she had never seen this variety of orchid before. "It's lovely," she said in wonder.

"Not as lovely as you," Tattoo complimented her.

Mandy blushed. "Thank you, Tattoo. Thanks."

Roarke eyed her and said with particular meaning, "I hope it will bring you everything you hope for." Mandy's smile faded as she met his gaze. "Will you excuse us? Tattoo, Leslie…" There was a grim expression on his face as he brushed past the Breems, with Leslie and Tattoo trailing him.

Tattoo stopped only a few steps away, apparently spotting someone. "I think I see Mr. Catlett," he said. "I'm gonna go check in with him. Good luck with your fantasy, boss." Leaving Roarke and Leslie staring after him, he trotted off to meet Fred Catlett, who stood some distance away sharing a plate of fruit with a blonde woman in a yellow sundress.

"Did you hear how he said that?" Leslie asked. "Like he does this all the time and you're the neophyte."

Roarke cast her a faintly surprised glance at her use of the last word, quirked a very brief smile, then shook his head. "I can only hope Tattoo's grand plans don't collapse around him," was all he said. "Ah, there's Mr. Balfour. I need to speak with him about that package. This way, Leslie."

She dutifully trailed him over to where a stout, short man with a balding head and a slightly florid face stood filling a plate. As Roarke engaged him in conversation, she lost interest and began to scan the clearing in the hope of possibly seeing a friend or two. The luaus were always crowded, and they were open to islanders as well as guests, so you never knew who you might see there. Occasionally, when the regular caterers had too many other commitments, Maureen's mother's company would fill in. Roarke had started hiring them as a backup since Leslie and Maureen had become friends, and had thanked Leslie for indirectly finding them, even though she knew perfectly well she hadn't been remotely responsible and it had been just a fluke.

In any case, it didn't look as if anyone she knew was here, and she was considering sneaking away long enough to get herself some more pineapple when she noticed something strange out of the corner of her eye. At first she thought it was the firelight from the torches scattered around the perimeter of the clearing, but one good look told her this was not the case. The light did flicker, but it was an ominous dull red and seemed to have no visible source. A human silhouette stood in front of it; as she stared, the person emerged into the edge of the clearing, and she could see now that it was a man.

She might have let her attention drift elsewhere but for two things. First, he was wearing a suit that looked peculiarly familiar in some way. She squinted a little, puzzling it out; then she understood. The suit looked like a photographic negative of her guardian's, all black with a white tie and white handkerchief in the breast pocket of the jacket. _Weird, _she thought, a sense of unease taking root in her.

Then the other thing happened: Mandy Breem, still carrying the potted Queen Omega orchid, stepped into view and approached the black-suited stranger, pausing to speak with him. After a minute or two she handed him the orchid, and Leslie blindly reached out behind her and caught her guardian's hand.

"Excuse me," Roarke said to Balfour and turned to his ward. "What is it, Leslie?"

"Look over there, Mr. Roarke!" she urged, whispering for some reason even she didn't know. "Who's that man in the black suit talking to Mrs. Breem?"

Roarke followed her gaze and stiffened, instantly recognizing the stranger. All his questions had suddenly been answered. He leaned slightly forward, not even noticing Leslie's tightening grip on his hand, and watched the unfolding scene intently. Leslie was so caught up in his tension that she couldn't tear her eyes away either. As they both gazed on, they saw the stranger raise the flowerpot—and the beautiful, rare bloom within it shriveled and dried up in a split second, leaving dead gray scraps and a forlorn twig stuck in the soil. Leslie gasped in spite of herself and then went statue-still, holding her breath, irrationally afraid the odd stranger might have overheard.

As if in response, Roarke slipped an arm around her and drew her in closer to him. "This explains everything," he murmured. "Come, Leslie, we'd better leave."

"Who is he?" Leslie persisted.

He spared her only the barest of glances. "An old nemesis. It's been some time since I last saw him, but it appears he's grown tired of waiting…" She stared at him, but he offered no further explanation, and she bit her lip, half running to keep up with Roarke's long, purposeful stride.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- October 26, 1980

Roarke piloted the station wagon down the Main House Lane and glanced at Leslie, sitting in the front seat. "So you didn't see him at all this morning?"

"Not a sign," she said. "Not since we saw that guy in the black suit at the luau last night. He's really devoted to that fantasy."

"Suspiciously so," Roarke commented, bringing the car to a stop in front of the main house. The early-afternoon sun beat down on their heads as they swung out of the car and started for the porch, unexpectedly passing the very person whom they'd just been discussing on his way down the walk. Tattoo carried an oddly-shaped object in his left hand and had a far-too-innocent look on his round face.

"What have you got there?" Roarke asked.

"Where?" said Tattoo blankly.

"Behind your back," Roarke said.

"Oh, there!" Tattoo blinked as if he'd had no idea there was something in his hand.

"Yes, there," said Roarke, his patience just beginning to wear down. Leslie snickered, then tipped forward in an attempt to get a closer look at the object that Tattoo now brought out in front of him. She thought it looked rather like a caricature of a shoe, with a hole in the top and a pointed end; it was made of some shiny gold metal.

"Well, it's nothing," Tattoo said uncertainly, peering anxiously up at Roarke. "Just trying, uh, a little magic…experimenting."

Roarke stared at him in surprise. "That lamp is not capable of magic."

"Oh, it is," Tattoo said. "Mr. Balfour told me so on the phone." And then Leslie knew what had been in the empty package, and blinked at her guardian in wonder.

"Indeed," Roarke said, looking highly amused. "Did he tell you that it was Aladdin's lamp?" Tattoo nodded eagerly, and the amusement was joined by a touch of incredulity. "Oh, Tattoo, don't tell me you actually believed him, did you? Oh, you didn't!"

Tattoo looked crestfallen. "I think…well, I was just thinking that—"

Roarke broke in, "If you have a problem, my friend, that requires a little magic, perhaps we had better discuss it, huh?"

"Oh, there's nothing, boss," Tattoo insisted. "There's nothing. Like I said, I was just trying a little magic."

Roarke nodded. "Ah." He held out his hand, and Tattoo peered at it blankly, prodding Roarke to prompt, "The lamp." After a split second of panic, Tattoo made a face of frustration and reluctantly forked the little gold artifact over, casting Leslie one fleeting but very sharp glance. She blinked at him but said nothing, merely smiled. "Thank you," Roarke said, and with that turned to go into the house. Leslie gave Tattoo a little wave and followed him.

No sooner did Roarke and Leslie step into the inner foyer than Amanda Breem accosted them. "Mr. Roarke, you've gotta help me," she pleaded.

Roarke paused and studied her coolly. "Help you? After you lied to me, Mrs. Breem?"

Startled by his reaction, Mandy floundered, "Well, I—I didn't mean it, I—"

"You said," Roarke interrupted frostily, "you came here to Fantasy Island to save your life." He crossed the room to his desk, Leslie hurrying slightly ahead of him to open the French shutters, and stopped just behind it, glancing at the lamp he'd taken from Tattoo before setting it down next to its box and focusing fully on Mandy. "But the real threat was much more than that, wasn't it?" As Phillip Breem, standing nearby, stared in confusion, Roarke concluded, "You are about to lose your immortal soul."

Mandy's gaze faltered and she hung her head; Phillip turned to Roarke and demanded, "What're you saying?"

Roarke acted as if he hadn't spoken. "You should have told me you were involved with the Prince of Darkness, Mrs. Breem." At that Leslie stared at him, wondering whether she'd really heard that right.

Phillip gaped too. "Are you crazy?" he exploded.

Mandy's head came up; she looked at Roarke but addressed her husband. "Mr. Roarke is right, Phillip," she confessed softly, her voice trembling. "I entered into a pact with Satan, and payment is due."

Roarke's voice softened slightly. "What exactly did Satan give you, Mrs. Breem, in return for your soul?"

Some of Mandy's spirit, bruised but not destroyed, shone through in her response. "I think you already know that, don't you?"

Roarke nodded, shifting his attention from Mandy to Phillip. "I know…" Leslie edged up a couple of steps to stand beside Roarke, riveted, waiting for the full story.

Phillip's face showed that he was beginning to make the connections. "The accident…the car crash—it was one year ago today." Roarke glanced silently back and forth between the Breems as Phillip continued in a daze. "I would've died on the operating table except for a miracle, that's what they said. There was no miracle, was there?" His amazed gaze settled on his wife. "You did it for me!"

"You were dying," Mandy explained, her voice rising plaintively. "The doctors had given up all hope—I was desperate!"

"And that's when you were approached," Roarke prompted quietly.

"Yes," Mandy said, barely above a whisper. "He offered to save Phillip's life if, in a year's time, he could claim my soul."

Roarke regarded them both for a second, then turned away with a faintly anguished look that froze Leslie's stomach. "Unfortunately, there is little I can do. You entered into a contract of your own free will, and Satan has certain rights, the same as everybody else."

"Well, he won't get her," Phillip announced stridently. "I'm going in her place."

"No!" Mandy shrieked, rushing to him and throwing her arms around him in full-blown panic. "No, don't!"

Roarke glanced at a saucer-eyed Leslie, then turned a stunned gaze on Phillip. "Do you understand what you are saying, Mr. Breem?"

Hysterically Mandy appealed to Roarke. "Don't let him, Mr. Roarke, please, don't let him go!" she cried, right on the edge of breaking down.

Roarke planted a hand on Leslie's shoulder, just long enough to indicate to her that she was to remain where she stood, before going to the distraught couple. "No, please, calm yourselves, both of you—please," he urged gently. He placed one hand on Phillip's shoulder and the other on Mandy's. "There may be a way after all." They stared at him with a fragile hope beginning to dawn in their eyes. "Please, have a seat, won't you?"

The Breems went to the loveseat under the windows, and Roarke took the matching chair by its side. Seating himself, he said, "As I said, the devil has his rights. But like everybody else, he is governed by rules and procedures. Now your case is not a strong one, but there is immense power in a love such as yours. That will be our strength."

Leslie turned shocked eyes to her guardian, and Mandy's and Phillip's gazes sharpened. "_Our_ strength?" Mandy asked.

Roarke nodded. "I will appear on your behalf as counsel for the defense. The devil is obliged to give us a hearing; in fact, I am reasonably sure this has been his purpose all along. He has been using you to set up a confrontation with me. You see, a love like yours is a priceless thing. Mephistopheles knew I wouldn't let it be destroyed without a fight." Even from where she stood, Leslie could see the faraway look in his dark eyes. "It will not be the first time that he and I have done combat…"

It took them just a few moments to make the arrangements to meet at the main house late that evening, and Roarke reminded them that there was no point in brooding over what was coming. "If you relax as much as possible this afternoon, you will be better able to face this. Now that I know the full story, there is more hope. I will need to make some additional arrangements, but I insist that you spend some time together, all right?"

"We'll try," Phillip said. "Mandy's been physically affected by all this stress and she can use a rest, and I need to get off this leg for a while."

"I'm sorry for the runaround I gave you," Mandy put in. "It's only that…he made me promise not to tell you about our transaction."

"I understand," said Roarke. "Please, go and try to enjoy yourselves." The Breems slowly departed the house, and Roarke turned to his ward. By then Leslie had sunk into his chair and now sat there hugging herself, shivering as if the temperature had dropped fifty degrees. Her blue eyes were unfocused and carried a sheen of tears that Roarke could see even from across the room.

A look of understanding settled over his handsome features, and he crossed the floor to her, slipping a hand under her chin and tilting her head back. "Leslie?"

There was no color at all in her face. "D-don't go," she whispered.

Roarke smiled a little, pulled up the chair she normally sat in, and settled into it, wrapping her hands in his. "Leslie, you know I must do this. Mr. and Mrs. Breem don't have the resources to face Mephistopheles on their own." She shivered again, and he squeezed her hands. "You know I've battled him before, and I am here in front of you, am I not?"

"But it takes only one time," she protested, her voice breaking.

Roarke sighed gently. "I won't lie to you, my child," he said a little reluctantly. "I can never guarantee the outcome of my battles with Satan, and I must rely on scrupulous preparation and minute examination of every aspect of the situation."

"Then it means you…" Somehow her face grew paler and she shied away from the words. "If you go and you—you…what're we gonna do without you?"

"In that event, you would live with Tattoo, of course," Roarke said. "I will prepare for just such a contingency. Tattoo knows much of what is necessary to continue operating Fantasy Island, and you've seen enough of the business that I suspect he would gladly take you on as his assistant."

"It wouldn't be the same," she said and shook her head. "I don't want you to leave, Mr. Roarke. I wish you could find some other way to rescue the Breems." A crazy thought slalomed across her mind. "Maybe I could help…"

"No," Roarke said instantly and firmly. "Under no circumstances whatsoever are you to become involved. You are to remain here where you are safe."

Leslie accepted this in good grace and nodded. She'd have been too terrified to do him any good anyway, she realized. Roarke watched her struggle with her emotions; at last she looked up. "I…I don't say this all that much. I guess maybe I've never really said it before, except to my mother. But just in case…I mean, you know, if…well…" She squeezed her eyes shut and blurted all in one burst, "IloveyouMisterRoarke."

He knew the effort that had cost her, and smiled, touched. He smoothed back her hair and said gently, "I love you as well, Leslie. Never doubt that."

"I just wanted you to know," she mumbled lamely, the tears spilling over. "I'd have felt horrible if…"

He gently shushed her and squeezed her hands again. "I understand. Now put it from your mind and let me make the preparations I must make. In the meantime, why don't you pack this away for me." He lifted the _faux_ Aladdin's lamp from the desk and handed it to her. "Once you've done that, you may take the afternoon for yourself. I ask just one favor: should you happen to see Tattoo anywhere, please let him know that I'd like to speak with him at the earliest opportunity."

Leslie nodded and accepted the lamp, turning it over in her hands and inspecting it. "Are you really sure this thing has no magic?" she asked wistfully.

Roarke chuckled. "I am positive," he said, patting her shoulder. "Go on now and let me get to work." They both stood up, and she gave him a swift, hard hug before pulling away, scooping up the box and lid from the desk and half running out of the room. Roarke watched her go, a small smile on his face, then took a deep breath and turned his mind to the matter at hand.

‡ ‡ ‡

Leslie didn't see Tattoo at all; she returned to the main house for a late supper with Roarke, admitting as much to him. "His fantasy can't be going that smoothly, especially now that he doesn't have that lamp."

Roarke looked reflective. "Something tells me that he's determined to see it through to the bitter end," he said. "Don't worry about it, Leslie. If he needs help badly enough, he'll come to me. Why don't you stay at the house now that it's dark—I'll have one less thing on my mind knowing where you are and that you're safe."

She agreed without fuss, and they finished eating in silence. In the study, she tried to read a book she had checked out of the library, but she couldn't seem to get into it. By the time Roarke looked up from a letter he'd been painstakingly composing, she had dozed off on the settee beneath the windows, her head resting on one arm.

At that point there came a knock on the door, and Roarke glanced up, calling, "Come in," before returning to the letter he was just completing. Tattoo came in and paused in the inner foyer when he saw Roarke writing. "Oh, I'm sorry, boss, I didn't know you were busy."

"No, that's all right, Tattoo, please…please come in." Tattoo made his way into the study, which was dark except for the glass-shaded lamp burning on Roarke's desk. He came around and paused beside Roarke's chair, face curious. Roarke made a last notation or two on the paper in front of him and turned to his assistant. "I want to talk to you, it won't take a minute. Tonight I have an appointment with…" He glanced at Leslie again. "…an old adversary. I am leaving this letter, to be opened only if I don't return." He folded it as he spoke and slipped it into an envelope. On the settee, Leslie stirred, roused by the voices.

Apprehension filled Tattoo's face. "Won't return? You mean, never?" Roarke nodded slightly, and the apprehension graduated to alarm. "Boss, please don't say that."

Roarke pulled open the top center drawer of the desk and slid the envelope inside. "I am putting it here…"

"But boss," Tattoo protested, "what's gonna happen to me and Leslie? What's gonna happen to Fantasy Island?"

Roarke smiled gently. "You two will run everything in my place. This will tell you how."

"Boss, I can't do that, you know that. Boss…please, don't leave."

"I must go, you know that," Roarke responded, smiling a little. "And if I don't come back, you'll manage very well." He paused for a few seconds, thinking of what Leslie had said earlier, and focused on Tattoo. "I want you to know, you have been a wonderful friend, and the best companion anyone could ask for."

Tattoo swallowed hard, protest and resignation waging war in his eyes, but common sense and understanding prevailing. "Thank you very much, boss, thanks. You know I feel the same way about you, don't you?" Roarke nodded and smiled; then they both heard a soft indrawn breath and turned simultaneously to see Leslie sitting there with a fist jammed against her mouth and tears streaming from her eyes. But they had no chance to go to her, for just then the door opened and Roarke's and Tattoo's attention was diverted to the foyer.

"Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Breem," Roarke said, rising and moving around Tattoo to join Phillip and Mandy in the foyer. Roarke looked at Phillip and requested, "You will wait for us here, Mr. Breem, please, with Tattoo and Leslie."

"No, Mr. Roarke," Phillip said, quietly but firmly. "I'm going with Mandy."

"We've talked it over, Mr. Roarke," Mandy began.

Phillip added, "Neither of us wants to live if the other dies."

Roarke considered this for a moment, then gave a nod. "I understand. Shall we go?" He gestured at the door, and Phillip and Mandy started out; Roarke glanced back once at Tattoo, then at Leslie, before following them out.

Tattoo stared after them. "Come back, boss," he murmured to himself. "Please come back…please. Come back…"

The door closed quietly, and the click of its latch seemed incredibly final to Leslie, who at last lost control and began to sob with great force, though remarkably little sound. She hunched over and hid her face in her hands, her entire upper torso shaking with the force of her fear and worry. She might have really let loose, but thirteen years of threats from Michael Hamilton had left their mark, and still had enough influence on her to make her try to play down her emotions, to keep them from bothering anyone else.

Then someone touched her arm and she looked up; there stood Tattoo, holding a box of tissues at her. "Th-thanks," she managed and plucked one out, then mopped at her face, coughing a few times.

"I wish I could let myself cry like that," said Tattoo, completely unexpectedly.

Leslie stared at him. "You do?"

He shrugged. "I trained myself years ago not to cry. Men aren't supposed to, after all, you know? But you're allowed to, you're a girl…and yet you don't. I don't think that's good for you. You need to let it all out." He met her gaze and offered a wry half-smile. "Maybe you should tell me to be quiet. Me talking like that when I won't follow my own advice."

She sniffed loudly and hunched a shoulder. "I wouldn't say anything like that."

They looked at each other, and then she did see the sheen of tears in his eyes, gently illuminated by the light from the lamp. He came closer and they hugged each other, hanging on for a long two or three minutes, trying to comfort each other and both fighting not to think of Roarke out there facing the loss of his very soul.

Just then the grandfather clock chimed eleven-thirty and Tattoo pulled back from her with a startled yank, his eyes shooting to the clock face with dismay. _"Sacre bleu," _he groaned, "I almost forgot."

Eager for something else to focus on, Leslie prodded, "Forgot what?"

Tattoo heaved a great sigh. "I don't know how the boss makes it look so easy, granting fantasies," he complained, as if confessing some long-held, torturous secret. "I thought this was gonna be simple. I figured that lamp the boss got would get that million dollars for Mr. Catlett with no problem at all, and it really seemed to work. He was rubbing it when a suitcase full of money crashed through the window."

"Oh, so that's why you opened Mr. Roarke's package," Leslie said.

"Yeah, right after you and the boss went to see Mrs. Breem. I took a phone call confirming the package had gotten here, and I tell you, Mr. Balfour said it was Aladdin's lamp. _The_ Aladdin's lamp. If it's not, then what did he want the stupid thing for in the first place?" Tattoo snorted, then visibly brought himself back to the subject at hand. "Anyway, it turned out that the money was stolen from the bank in town yesterday. It was in this morning's paper, did you see it? Now the guys who stole it have found out what happened to it, and they want it back. So I have to go meet them in the graveyard in half an hour."

"What for?" Leslie protested. "It's Sunday night. I bet Mr. Catlett's spent most of it by now, hasn't he?"

Tattoo nodded. "He thinks I can just rub the lamp again and bring them a full million."

"But…wait a minute, if the lamp doesn't work, you can't get a whole million dollars. So if you…" Leslie's train of thought slammed into a piece of nasty reality and she gasped, seizing his shoulders. "Oh, not you too! Tattoo, don't go, _please._"

"Calm down," Tattoo said soothingly, and Leslie wondered how he could suddenly be so cavalier about his own problems when he'd been so upset about Roarke's. "It'll be all right. I've got a plan."

"Well, at least let me come with you," Leslie pleaded.

"No, I need you to stay here," Tattoo said. "It's safer, for one thing. And besides, there's gotta be somebody who can notify the police. As soon as I leave, you call them and tell them what's going on. I don't want you leaving this house for any reason, you understand? Two of us in trouble is two too many, and…" He smiled with black humor. "Well, if we both screw up, _some_body's gotta be around to run Fantasy Island."

Leslie threw him a black glare. "That's really reassuring."

Tattoo shrugged. "What is it you Americans say?...'them's the breaks'?" She glared at him all the harder, but he just ignored her, going to Roarke's desk, unlocking and opening the drawer where the charter-plane passes were stored, and extracting a surprisingly big handgun.

Leslie's eyes popped with shock. "Tattoo, you're not gonna _shoot_ that thing, are you??"

"Hey, I told you to calm down," Tattoo said, not unkindly. "It's just a little insurance. I'm gonna go now…but don't forget, once I leave, you call the police and you tell them everything I just told you. Tell them to go straight to the graveyard, got it?" So saying, he headed out the door without waiting for a reply from her. Leslie watched him and sighed loudly before going to the desk and lifting the telephone receiver. If only there were as simple a solution to Roarke's problem…


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § -- October 26, 1980

Roarke and the Breems entered a clearing that seemed darker than the night itself, picking their way through ground fog and overhanging branches. Before too long they saw a harsh yellow light silhouetting a humanlike figure and moved towards it. The normal island night noises seemed to have vanished, making the setting all the eerier. The light turned out to be glowing smoke, billowing brightly into the air behind the waiting figure just as it had the evening before.

The man eyed them sharply as the trio, with Roarke in the lead, made their way closer to where he stood. Roarke paused between two hanging vines to glance around, and settled his stance when he caught sight of his old nemesis, who focused on him with nicely feigned good humor. "Roarke, my dear fellow, how good it is to see you again."

Roarke glanced back at Phillip and Mandy, approaching the man in black till he stood about six feet away from him. "Mr. Breem, may I present Mephistopheles," he said tonelessly.

"I'm delighted to meet you, Mr. Breem," Mephistopheles remarked gravely. "How generous of you to accompany your wife. May I say I consider it a most noble act."

"We have come to demand a hearing," said Roarke.

A small mocking smile quirked into life on Mephistopheles' features. "By all means," he said. "But you understand, Roarke, if you lose, I get your soul too."

"Isn't that why you ordered Mrs. Breem to Fantasy Island?" said Roarke. Mephistopheles shrugged with an _oh well_ expression. "However," Roarke added, "I am prepared to offer you all our souls, or none."

"Why not? After all, I have a reputation of being a good sport. You've got yourself a deal." Mephistopheles smiled.

"We have the right to examine your contract with Mrs. Breem. Will you produce it, please?" Roarke requested, holding out a hand.

The devil noted, "I drew it up myself. You'll waste your time looking for loopholes…I give you my word."

Roarke smiled wryly. "You will forgive me if I don't take your word for anything."

"Flatterer," purred Mephistopheles and smirked, finally handing Roarke a sheet of paper. Roarke studied it carefully for some time; then he glanced up and spotted the pot that still contained the now-dead Queen Omega orchid. Mephistopheles followed his glance and gave a shrug when Roarke flicked a disgusted look in his direction.

"A pretty piece of trickery," Roarke observed, handing back the contract, picking up the pot and examining the withered blossoms with regret.

Mephistopheles frowned. "May I remind you, old adversary, that we are not in a court of law. I have fulfilled the letter of the contract—that is all that is required of me."

Roarke looked up sharply and crossed over to him, brandishing the pot for emphasis. "You knew she could never deliver a living bloom in your hands! Why, that's deliberate deception."

"But I advised her to seek your help," Mephistopheles said, watching Roarke set the pot down. "If she'd been honest with you, then you could have objected. Now, too late."

"It's never too late to object to fraud," Roarke shot back.

Mephistopheles eyed him. "If she's read things into it that aren't there, it's not my fault," he said, singsonging the last three words.

Roarke lost his patience and snapped, "You encouraged her desperation, Mephistopheles, as you always do. You pretend to be reasonable; you pose as a friend and as a hope, but all you deliver is destruction. You are the worst kind of fraud—you are a lying hypocrite."

"That was a poor choice of words," Mephistopheles protested mildly. "I would have much preferred 'master politician'."

Before either could say anything more, they heard screaming, roaring, banshee wailing, cackling, all manner of wild noises. They both looked around and saw Phillip and Mandy at some distance away, cringing and grasping at each other as a series of demons' faces, death's-heads and other nightmarish apparitions swooped down on them from thin air. Mephistopheles' face twisted into a sneer. "Your clients tried to escape," he bit out, scowling in the Breems' direction. His voice dripped contempt. "How _stupid_. See how piteously they clutch each other."

Roarke spoke softly, staring at the Breems, as if the apparitions were invisible and inaudible to him. "They are clinging to each other in the face of the unknown…each bravely giving comfort to the other."

"Why Roarke," Mephistopheles said, eyeing him oddly, "you are an encourageable romantic!"

Roarke smiled faintly. "If you mean that I am in love with love, you are quite right."

The devil shrugged expansively. "Don't get me wrong, I find love very useful. Withiut love, there would be no temptation, and in my business, I couldn't get along without it."

"On the contrary. Love is the creative energy of the universe. Without it, life would be hell, and you would have won long ago. Someday…someday, when all mankind really learns to love, like those two good people, you will finally be destroyed."

"I am not the one facing destruction here. Your time is almost up!" The final word had barely left his lips when a distant bell clanged, echoing lazily across the clearing. Roarke glanced up silently, tuning in to the mournful sound; Mephistopheles looked up too, and the Breems peered worriedly around them as if looking for the bell.

Mephistopheles smiled maliciously at Roarke. "Midnight," he whispered triumphantly. "Nothing you have said compels me to release your clients…or you. You are finally beaten!"

Roarke gazed at him calmly and steadily. "We both know the rules. You must take exactly what you are entitled to, exactly—not one soul more nor less, or you relinquish your claim to all of us."

"I claim all three souls!" the devil declaimed grandly.

Roarke lifted a hand, three fingers upraised. "Three?" he echoed softly, eyed his own hand as if it were someone else's, and then said in mock perplexity, "I don't see how you can manage that." His smallest finger shot up to join its fellows. "There are four souls here."

Mephistopheles clucked his tongue and gave Roarke a mildly reproving, sidewise look. "Four?" He shook his head at what he plainly saw as a bluff on Roarke's part.

Roarke lifted his other hand and curled a finger around the last two on the first hand. "How will you take Mrs. Breem," he asked, folding those two fingers down, "without harming the child?"

Phillip and Mandy watched in bewilderment; Mephistopheles' expression shifted into one of sudden dread. "What child?"

Roarke's eyebrows rose as if in surprise, and the enigmatic owner of Fantasy Island adopted the gently mocking tone Mephistopheles had employed earlier. "Oh, I'm so sorry," he said, his eyes alight. "You did know Mrs. Breem was pregnant, did you not?" A stunned look bloomed on the devil's face. "If I remember correctly, you are forbidden to touch the unborn child; so, if you cannot take all, you take nothing."

Slowly Mephistopheles absorbed this revelation, and his face went blank as he turned his back on the trio. After a moment his frustrated rage exploded out of him in one long, rolling denouncement. _"DAMN YOU, ROARKE!!"_

"Is that not what you have been trying to do?" Roarke retorted with quiet triumph. "You lose again. You can't take any of us!"

Now they could all see his transformation into his true form: the pointed ears, the tiny horns sprouting from each temple, the strangely sinister-looking widow's peak in his forehead. Roarke watched him closely, eyes narrowed; a hundred stark emotions seemed to cross Mephistopheles' features with every second as he glared unseeingly into the surrounding vegetation. "I warn you, Mephistopheles, no reprisals. The Breems are free of you forever!"

"You hurt my feelings, my dear Roarke," Mephistopheles complained. "I know the rules! Even my worst detractors must admit that the devil is a damn good sport." He began to retreat into the distance, as if standing on a moving platform. "Thanks for the game, Roarke—we will play again. We have all eternity before us. And sooner or later, I'm bound to win!" So saying, he vanished in a flash of blinding red light and a last swirl of smoke.

Roarke exhaled deeply and turned to face the Breems, whose expressions were a mixture of fragile hope and a little emotional trauma. "Mr. Roarke…is it really over?" Mandy ventured uncertainly.

Roarke nodded and said quietly, "For you two, yes."

Mandy breathed out with great relief, and Phillip said with solemn gratitude, "Mr. Roarke, we owe you the most any human being can owe."

"I'm just sorry that you had to tell a lie in order to save us," Mandy added.

"A lie? What lie?" Roarke asked blankly.

"Well, you said that I was pregnant," Mandy reminded him.

Roarke regarded her, his eyes beginning to shine, and said, "Mrs. Breem, when you get back to Philadelphia, I suggest you pay a visit to your family doctor."

Mandy blinked, and her face began to light up; she turned to Phillip, who smiled back in amazement and hugged her. They stared at Roarke wonderingly, but he merely smiled.

‡ ‡ ‡

The main house was dark; even the lamp on the desk had been turned out. Confused, Roarke flipped a switch near the door, flooding the foyer with light that spilled over into the study. By its dim illumination he could see Leslie all but asleep on the settee, a box of tissues at her side and one clenched in her fist. "Leslie, for heaven's sake, what are you doing sitting in the dark?" he asked, amused.

The sound of his voice jolted her awake and she stared at him, her entire face going from drowsy confusion to sheer radiance in a split second. "Mr. Roarke!" she shouted joyfully. "You came back!" She leaped out of her seat and lunged at him, allowing him barely enough time to brace himself against the impact as she threw her arms around him. "You really came back…I was so afraid you wouldn't!"

Roarke laughed softly, warmed by her overjoyed welcome. "Easy, child, easy," he said and hugged her back, glancing around the room then and realizing she was there alone. "Where's Tattoo?"

"Oh…something happened with Mr. Catlett's fantasy," Leslie said. "He had to go see a couple of guys about some stolen money. I already called the police."

Roarke stepped back to stare at her. "Perhaps you'd better explain that more fully."

"But Mr. Roarke, Tattoo could be in trouble," Leslie protested anxiously and bit her lip. "He's at the graveyard. Can't we go there while I tell you what he told me?"

"All right," Roarke agreed, "but you'd better make it quick. Come along." He guided her out with a hand on her shoulder, listening intently while she explained the story to him as Tattoo had told it to her. It didn't take long, and Roarke asked, "Is that all you know?"

Leslie nodded. "But that explains why he had the lamp. He was complaining that he couldn't figure out why you wanted it if it didn't work."

Roarke chuckled shortly. "It would seem that Tattoo has managed to get involved in something that's beyond his control," he remarked dryly, applying the jeep's brakes and turning down a small dirt lane. UP ahead they could see the flickering red and blue lights of police cars; Roarke pulled in behind one of them and parked. "Stay behind me till I see what the situation is," he told Leslie softly. She nodded vigorously and tailgated him past the first few rows of headstones.

Then Roarke stopped short, causing Leslie to only narrowly miss bumping into him from behind, and chuckled. "I think it's safe," he told her, and she peeked out from behind him. There stood Tattoo, holding a gun on a man in a yellow sport jacket while one of the island policemen pulled him out of a freshly dug grave that hadn't yet been filled. Two others joined him in taking the man off to one of the waiting squad cars, and Tattoo lowered the gun.

"Is everything under control, Tattoo?" Roarke inquired.

"Everything okay, boss," Tattoo replied confidently.

Not far away stood Fred Catlett, holding onto the blonde woman he'd been with at the luau; she was wearing a pink dress this time, and Leslie realized she was older than she'd first appeared, possibly in her late thirties or thereabouts. The blonde spoke up: "Thank you, Tattoo…they would've killed us." Both she and Catlett peered nervously at the crooks as they were paraded past.

"Not with me around," Tattoo said proudly.

For the first time Roarke noticed the gun. "Tattoo," he said, "where in the name of Wyatt Earp did you get that very large and deadly weapon?"

"Oh, I bought it, boss," Tattoo told him, hefting up the gun so that it pointed into the air. "Self-protection, you know?"

"Indeed!" observed Roarke. "Then you should have checked it for bullets."

"Bullets…?" Tattoo parroted blankly, raising the gun with a finger on the trigger. Leslie clapped her hands over her ears in anticipation, but when Tattoo pulled the trigger, the gun merely clicked. Stunned, he tried several more times, with the same result. Leslie dropped her hands from her ears and used one to cover her grin instead.

"Mm-hmm," Roarke said with a nod, a smile fighting to get its way. Fred Catlett and his female companion looked at each other in astonishment.

Tattoo lowered the gun. "Oh, boss!" he groaned in horror. Leslie ducked her head, but when she heard Roarke's barely-stifled chuckles, she knew he'd seen her huge grin.

§ § § -- October 27, 1980

The car carrying the Breems arrived first on Monday morning, and Phillip approached his hosts looking relaxed and happy. "Mr. Roarke, there was something more I wanted to say…" he began.

Roarke shook his head. "There is no need to say anything, Mr. Breem. You have given me an example of loyalty and love I shall always remember." That drew smiles from everyone, and the Breems made their farewells and started away toward the plane.

Tattoo peered up at Roarke. "Boss, I knew you wouldn't lie about the baby."

Roarke's eyebrows shot up and he eyed Tattoo a bit wryly. "Well, thank you very much, my friend," he said, amused."

"But—how did you know? I mean, you're not a doctor."

"Indeed," was all Roarke said, and with another smile he waved at the retreating Breems. A couple of minutes later Fred Catlett, looking a bit despondent, approached them.

"Well, Tattoo, I want to thank you for…" He hesitated, then grinned wistfully. "An _interesting_ fantasy."

Tattoo smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry that your fantasy didn't come out the way I wanted it."

"What didn't work?" Roarke asked.

"Well, Fred didn't get the girl," Tattoo pointed out, as Fred was standing there alone.

"Who said so?" Roarke inquired and gestured toward the dock, where the blonde woman stood waiting, a big grin on her face. Catlett glanced that way, then did a double-take.

"Ava! I thought she was in jail for bank robbery!" he exclaimed.

"So did I," Tattoo agreed. "What happened?"

"Very simple," said Roarke. "Miss Ava Foster is an undercover police officer. She joined forces with Ace Scanlon and Herb Glazer only in order to bring them to justice." Beaming, Catlett shook hands, bounded off to join Ava Foster, and trotted off to the plane with her.

Tattoo stared after them for a moment, then turned accusingly to Roarke. "You didn't tell me she was a lady cop. Why?"

"For the same reason you didn't tell me you borrowed my lamp," said Roarke.

"You knew about that, and you fixed it so the money would go through the window," Tattoo guessed.

"I? How could I?" Roarke asked innocently, but once again Leslie caught him stifling a smile and shook her head at him in playful reproach.

"One million dollars," Tattoo mused, mystified. "One million dollars exactly."

"A mere coincidence, I assure you," Roarke replied.

Tattoo frowned, looking a little disillusioned. "Then the lamp…it's not magic."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Roarke said. "I will put it this way: sometimes it's best not to know where reality leaves off, and the magic begins. To tell you the truth…" He glanced around them as if afraid someone might overhear, gathered Leslie in a little closer, and leaned down to confide in them. "Sometimes I am not altogether sure myself!"

Leslie drew back a little bit in disbelief, and Tattoo stared suspiciously at him as Roarke put a finger to his lips in a wordless reminder to keep his "secret". But they both saw the amusement he couldn't quite hide, and all Leslie could do was shake her head.

"Oh, incidentally," Tattoo said suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to him, "I heard you got an invitation to Myeko Sensei's Halloween party next weekend, and you won't be helping with the fantasies."

"The party isn't going to last the whole day," Leslie protested. "I can still help out…although after this weekend, I'm not too sure I even want to think about Halloween."

"Does that mean you're not going as the devil?" Tattoo teased her.

She shot up to her full height then and took a step in his direction. "You're gonna get it for that," she promised and chased him toward the car that pulled around to pick them up. Roarke watched them go and finally gave voice to his merriment.

§ § § -- April 6, 2006

"Smart girl, helping uncle solve the mystery," Julie remarked to Leslie.

Leslie shrugged. "Father was busy, and I just happened to notice Mrs. Breem crossing the clearing to talk to this stranger. I probably wouldn't have paid much attention, except that his suit caught my eye and I instantly realized it was a perfect reversal of Father's. Something told me that had to be significant, so I brought it to his attention, and that was all there was to it."

"Still," Julie persisted. "That's really observant."

"Which I took into account when Leslie first returned from Finland in the wake of Teppo's death and applied for the job as my assistant," Roarke said, smiling. "At times she was a little too observant. We've had several guests whose background stories bore close similarities to Leslie's own, and she took their fantasies and situations a bit too much to heart as a result. The first time it happened was just after the new year, a few months after the confrontation with Mephistopheles."

"Oh, that's right…Trudy Brown," Leslie recalled.

"The gymnast?" Julie asked curiously. "What about her?"

"She had a very rocky start before I granted her fantasy," Roarke said, and he and Leslie related the tale.


	7. Chapter 7

§ § § -- January 10, 1981

Leslie was really looking forward to enjoying Sunday evening's gymnastics show with her friends, and she was upbeat and excited at the plane dock—enough to ask what Tattoo had once referred to as "the idiot questions". It was she who inquired, "Who're those people?" when a family of four emerged from the plane and made their way down the dock.

"They constitute the Otis T. Boggs clan," Roarke explained, "owners of a small farm in the Ozark mountains."

"Whose fantasy is it?" she asked.

"The fantasy belongs to Mr. Hadley Boggs, that young man bringing up the rear."

"Him? He belongs to the clan?" Tattoo put in. Hadley Boggs was dressed in understated casual clothing, while his family reminded Leslie of old episodes of "The Beverly Hillbillies", dressed as they were in old-fashioned country clothing. Roarke nodded in reply to Tattoo's question, and Tattoo remarked, "He looks more like a city boy."

"Indeed he is, now. Young Mr. Boggs left the Ozarks eight years ago to gain an education. Late last year he was graduated from MIT." Leslie brightened at that.

"Very good choice," she said with a grin, and Roarke chuckled acknowledgement. _Fantasy Islander Leslie might be now,_ he reflected, _but she will always have a piece of New England deep in her soul._ "What's his fantasy, then?"

"A very simple, very selfless one," Roarke said quietly. "Hadley Boggs is filled with a great deal of gratitude. His parents and his sister sacrificed enormously to send him to school. Now he wants to take them away from their poverty for just a little while."

"Well, I hope it works," remarked Tattoo. "They look like fish out of water."

Roarke nodded. "That's right, Tattoo…and that's what worries me. Fish out of water frequently end up in the frying pan." Tattoo and Leslie glanced at each other with some concern; then they followed Roarke's gaze, which was now trained on three women stepping out of the plane cabin. One was an older blonde woman who paused long enough for a pretty, voluptuous brunette to join her coming down the dock; behind them, apparently ignored, was a nondescript young blonde with a pensive look on her face.

Tattoo's eyes were fixed on the brunette. "Oh, boss, she's beautiful! Who is she?"

"That is Miss Janet Martin, Tattoo. She's here to compete in the Fantasy Island Gymnastics Tournament," Roarke explained.

"And that's her mother with her?" Leslie put in.

"Yes, Mrs. Mabel Martin. And the other young girl is Mrs. Martin's niece, Miss Trudy Brown." Roarke indicated the girl trailing her aunt and cousin; Trudy lowered her head to let someone drape a lei around her neck. "She's here for the tournament also, but I'm afraid she has very little chance of winning."

"Why? She's not any good, boss?" Tattoo surmised.

Roarke frowned, studying Trudy Brown with sympathy. "Do you remember the story of Cinderella, Tattoo?"

"Oh, is that Trudy's wicked aunt?" Tattoo suggested, and Leslie smiled.

"No, not wicked," Roarke clarified, "but not caring. And more than anything else in the world, Trudy wants someone to care about her. You see, Miss Brown has no confidence. She's convinced she's second-rate in everything."

"Then she's the one with the fantasy," Leslie said, very interested. Something about Trudy Brown's plight touched her.

"Correct," Roarke replied with a smile. "Just once, Trudy Brown would like to be in control—make things happen, instead of having them happen to her."

"What kind of things?" Tattoo asked. As he spoke, Trudy stepped onto firm ground and took up a spot slightly removed from her aunt and cousin, staring unsmiling at the grass beneath her shoes. She looked unaccountably drab; her dark-blonde hair was drawn loosely back into a ponytail, and she wore a plain brown jumper dress over a white blouse. Her only jewelry was a necklace with a gold heart-shaped pendant dangling from it. Unlike Janet, she wore no makeup; but she had a slim, pretty face and a slender build.

"That, my friend, is the question," Roarke said ominously. "And the danger." So saying, he accepted his drink and toasted their latest guests; Leslie watched Trudy Brown and wondered if her guardian would give her enough time to get to know her a little.

‡ ‡ ‡

Roarke decided to begin with the Boggs fantasy, and had arranged for a limousine to take them to a huge estate in the Enclave. This particular one had a gigantic, meticulously landscaped yard at least the size of a football field, and reminded Leslie somewhat of a sedate governmental building with its pristine white exterior. "Why don't you stop here, driver," Roarke suggested, "and let everyone enjoy the fine view."

The car halted partway up the drive leading to the mansion, and the driver got out and came around to the back door to let out the Boggses, Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie. Otis Boggs stared at the mansion with a wide grin. "My goodness, Mr. Roarke, that's what I call a first-rate hotel!"

Roarke, assisting Mrs. Boggs out of the other side of the car, straightened up and smiled. "Oh, that's not a hotel, Mr. Boggs. That is your home away from home."

Hadley Boggs' sister Emily, a wholesome-looking blonde with her hair pulled up into two little-girl ponytails with bright-red ribbons, popped out of the car and blurted, "Wowee! I bet even Roy Clark don't have a place this big."

"I tell you one thing for sure," Otis said. "When our son throws a fantasy for his family, he don't leave nothin' undone." Hadley grinned, coming around the car with everyone else. "Now c'mon, we don't wanna stand around here—our fantasy'll be over come Monday." He, his wife and Emily started up the yard, but then stopped at sight of the small crowd that had gathered on the front steps. "Who're them folk up there?"

"They are your household staff, waiting to meet you," Roarke told him. "Oh, one final detail: you will be hosting a cocktail party at four o'clock, Mr. Boggs."

"Cocktail party?" Hadley echoed. "How can we host a cocktail party when we don't know anybody to invite?"

Tattoo spoke up. "Don't worry, the boss took care of it."

Roarke nodded. "I took the liberty of inviting the ten wealthiest guests on Fantasy Island." Leslie remembered him being on the phone earlier in the week; now she understood why she'd overheard so many famous names for a couple of days.

"Millionaires," she said aloud with realization.

"Millio—didja hear that, Ma?" Otis exclaimed, turning to his wife. "I always wanted to meet a real live millionaire."

"And so you shall, Mr. Boggs," Roarke assured him.

The driver passed by them then, carrying their luggage, and Otis started forward offering his help, but Hadley restrained him. "Pa, Pa, let him be," he said. "He's only doing his job."

His father nodded. "Oh. Well, c'mon, girls." Mrs. Boggs and Emily started off after him, and Hadley turned to his hosts, who waited beside the car.

"Ten millionaires and their ladies are going to attend a cocktail party hosted by four of the brokest hillbillies ever to set foot on Fantasy Island," he said. "Why?"

"Very simple, Mr. Boggs," Roarke said. "Tattoo?" Tattoo obligingly handed a newspaper to Hadley, who shook it out and read the front page. "That is a copy of today's _Fantasy Island Chronicle."_

Hadley stared at the banner headline. " 'Multimillionaires Arrive on Fantasy Island'?"

Roarke looked at him with surprise, then frowned slightly and extended a hand. "May I, Mr. Boggs?" Hadley gave him the paper, and Roarke took a good look at the front page, with Leslie peering over his shoulder. Aloud Roarke read the subheadlines: " 'Boggs Family Has Vast Mineral Holdings'…'Uranium Strike Worth…_Billions'_?" He emphasized the last word with sudden suspicion and shot Tattoo a killing look. Tattoo looked rather sheepish, and Leslie stared curiously at him, wondering what Tattoo had to do with the exaggerations.

Hadley protested, "Mr. Roarke, all my folks got left is a ten-acre chicken-scratching hollow. I mean, they had to sell the best part of their farm just to send me to school!"

"Well, you know, newspapers sometimes…embellish…especially about society affairs," Roarke said, with another black look at Tattoo.

"Journalistic license?" suggested Tattoo hopefully.

"Yes," Roarke said, in a tone that promised repercussions.

Hadley stared at the mansion. "This is embarrassing, Mr. Roarke. A family of poor dirt farmers, rubbing shoulders with all that gold and glitter…what've I done to my folks? It's like giving them a whole pile of toys on Christmas, then taking them back the next day."

Tattoo asked a little uncertainly, "Does that mean you want my boss to cancel your fantasy?"

Hadley hesitated. "I'm not sure—" he began.

At that moment Emily and their parents came up to him. "Hadley!" she bubbled. "Hadley, you just gotta come and look—it's purely unbelievable!"

"It's just like a castle," Otis added. "There's runnin' water, electricity, color TV…and it all works!"

"An' servants doggin' ya ever'where…shoot," added Mrs. Boggs, sounding disenchanted. She half turned away and shot a glance into the sky.

"Mr. Boggs," Roarke said gently, "you must make a decision."

Hadley glanced at his family, who watched him expectantly; finally he turned back to Roarke and inquired gamely, "What time's the party?"

"Four P.M.," Roarke replied. Hadley nodded, and with that headed toward the mansion along with his family. Tattoo began to take several backward steps; Leslie noticed and twisted at the waist to watch him. Roarke, though, hardly moved. "Tattoo, why don't you try the other side of the island? There are some excellent places to hide."

"You gave me a job," Tattoo said in self-defense. " 'Call the newspaper,' you said."

Roarke turned then and awarded Tattoo the full wattage of his disapproving glare. "And give them the Boggs party announcement—that's _all_ I said."

Tattoo tried another tack. "Boss, please. I'm the best assistant you ever had, right?"

Roarke scowled. "That is not the issue! We're talking about multimillionaires—uranium, yet!"

"Society papers—they always exaggerate, you said," Tattoo pointed out.

"Without an ounce of help from you, of course," countered Roarke skeptically.

Tattoo managed to look innocent and wounded all at once. "Oh, boss!"

"Uranium," Roarke muttered in disgust, slapped the newspaper against one hand with the other and stalked back to the car. "Get in, Leslie, we have another appointment." His voice was brusque and left no room for argument, even had she had one; she scrambled into the car without further ado. Tattoo glanced back at the mansion, sighed and climbed in beside her, while Roarke got in up front with the driver, still shaking his head.

Roarke's annoyance had dissipated enough by the time they reached the main house that he was able to greet Trudy Brown with cordial warmth. She smiled halfheartedly in response and returned her attention to the scene outside the French shutter doors, where she stood with her arms folded over her abdomen.

Roarke leaned forward slightly. "You seem unhappy, Miss Brown. Are you disappointed with Fantasy Island?"

Trudy turned back. "Oh, no, Mr. Roarke," she said, finally joining them inside the study, where Leslie had paused beside a full-length free-standing mirror covered by a red curtain, and Roarke and Tattoo waited by a club chair. "It's even more beautiful than I expected. I guess this seems pretty silly, but…I kind of hoped that I might change too."

"Oh?" Roarke asked.

Trudy glanced down at herself. "Look at me…as plain as ever."

"Miss Brown, your fantasy is to make things happen in your life," Roarke reminded her. "You don't need beauty to win a gymnastics competition."

Trudy glanced hesitantly at him; her gaze skipped away, then returned, filled with pleading. "Would it be asking too much just to be a little pretty too? I mean…it would help me with my confidence…wouldn't it?"

"Perhaps the self-confidence—faith in yourself—should come first," Roarke said gently. "Others see you as you see yourself."

"I guess you're right," Trudy conceded quietly, but there was disappointment all over her downcast face as she started for the foyer to leave the house.

"However, Miss Brown…" Roarke's voice stopped Trudy in her tracks, and he smiled and turned to his ward beside the mirror. "Leslie?"

She nodded and pushed the curtained mirror a little farther into the room, so that Trudy's attention was directed to it. She and Roarke each drew aside one of the curtain panels that concealed the glass. "This mirror was made for Helen of Troy…or so the legend says," Roarke began, and Trudy nodded understanding. "No one is certain what the material is, but it was crafted so perfectly that it reflects images without the slightest distortion. Look into it, Miss Brown." Slowly Trudy stepped back into the room and approached the mirror, hands clasped in front of her, head down. When she finally met her own gaze in the mirror, Roarke prompted, "Tell me what you see."

"An ugly duckling," Trudy replied listlessly.

"Beauty emanates from within," Roarke told her. "See yourself as I see you: your figure, slim and graceful; your skin, smooth as cream; your eyes, sparkling jewels." As he spoke, fog filled the reflection, obscuring the image of Trudy they all saw therein. After a moment it cleared, revealing a very pretty young woman with stylishly curled hair, clad in a delicate pale-pink dress with ruffled sleeves. Trudy's large blue eyes got even bigger as she contemplated what she saw; Leslie and Tattoo both turned from the image to the girl, only to see that Trudy herself looked just like her new reflection. She raised her hands to her face and let out a breathy laugh of wonder.

"Boss, how did you do it?" Tattoo asked the question Leslie wanted to voice.

"I did nothing, Tattoo," Roarke replied. "Miss Brown made it happen, by daring to look at herself as she really is, within her soul."

Trudy looked wonderingly at him; her features took on a thoughtful look. "Can I make other things happen?" she asked.

"Oh, indeed!" Roarke assured her with a nod and a smile.

"What kind of things?" Trudy persisted, hopeful excitement filling her face.

"You will find out soon enough. Use your power wisely, Miss Brown," Roarke added with quiet sternness, "or I warn you, the price will be very high."

Trudy's eyes gleamed. "I am so happy!" she exclaimed and giggled deliriously as she took Roarke's hands in gratitude. "Thank you!" With that, she turned and all but ran out of the house; Leslie, watching her go, had the feeling that Roarke's warning had been lost on her. Then a movement caught hers and Roarke's attention at the same moment, and they looked around to see Tattoo standing before the mirror, one hand over his head, bouncing on his toes—clearly in an effort to get the mirror to make him taller! When he caught Roarke watching him, he turned away with a small sigh. Leslie laughed, laid a hand on each of Tattoo's shoulders from behind and bent down to kiss his cheek.

"You don't need that, _mon oncle," _she assured him. "You're perfect just the way you are." Tattoo glanced at her in surprise over his shoulder, then grinned sheepishly. Roarke smiled broadly and nodded agreement.

‡ ‡ ‡

Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie had an early lunch together so that Tattoo could handle some extra rounds and Roarke could check ostensibly on the progress of the setup for the gymnastics competition, but primarily on Trudy Brown's fantasy. It didn't take them long to reach the gym, where they walked in on a few dozen contestants diligently practicing. Some distance away, Leslie noticed Trudy talking with a young man she hadn't seen before; Mabel Martin stood nearby, eyes fixed firmly on Janet, who was just starting a practice routine on the parallel bars.

"There's Janet," she commented without much enthusiasm. From Trudy's demeanor when they'd first met her at the main house, and from the way she had seen Janet and Mabel completely ignore Trudy at the plane dock—not to mention what Roarke had told her and Tattoo there—she was prepared to dislike Janet Martin on sight. But as Janet got into her routine, she had to admit the young woman was quite good.

Roarke, on the other hand, was watching Trudy, whose gaze was as fixed on Janet as Leslie's was. Even from where he stood, he could see Mabel gazing admiringly at her daughter and Trudy glaring, her face as pale as ever.

Just as Janet reached the pinnacle of a revolution around the upper bar, a pin popped neatly out of the pole that anchored the bar in place; the bar instantly dropped loose, sending Janet plunging to the mat. Mabel gasped and raced across the room to assist her; the man who'd been standing beside Trudy followed her, and Roarke shook his head, knowing exactly what had happened.

"Leslie," he said, and she turned her attention from the scene on the mat in time to hurry after him as he approached Trudy. Trudy didn't see them coming till Roarke spoke: "You could have injured your cousin very seriously."

Trudy turned to look at him with an eerily expressionless face. "I'm sorry, Mr. Roarke," she said woodenly. "I don't know what came over me."

_She did it?_ Leslie thought, blinking. _But why?_ Roarke eyed Trudy and finally asked, "You really don't know, huh?"

Trudy's mask crumpled and she appealed to him with some desperation. "I'm sick and tired of being the black sheep, the also-ran…the one who always gets Janet's hand-me-downs. It's been that way ever since my parents died, and I had to move in with Aunt Mabel and her precious daughter." Leslie, enlightened and instantly very much in Trudy's camp, watched with deep empathy as Trudy peered hopelessly up at her host. "Do you know what it's like to get leftover love, Mr. Roarke?"

"You never receive love until you learn how to accept it," Roarke said quietly.

"I want them to love me, honestly!" Trudy insisted.

"Love you, or approve of you?" Roarke countered. She stared at him, as if unsure what to say. "I warn you once more, Miss Brown: think clearly, control your emotions, or you may cause irreparable harm." He eyed the speechless young gymnast firmly for a long moment before nodded and departing the building, gesturing at Leslie.

She hesitated, torn between wanting to talk to Trudy and following her guardian's dictates; but Trudy just shook her head a little and turned away, and Leslie left at last. Roarke was waiting for her at the door. "Did you wish to stay and watch the contestants practice?" he asked.

Again she hesitated long enough to search out Trudy in the crowd, but when she found her, Trudy was merely sitting on the corner of a mat with her head in her hands. "No, I guess not," she said and left the building with Roarke. She could feel his scrutiny, but was relieved when he didn't ask any questions.

She wondered about Trudy Brown's story all afternoon, but didn't see her till they had gone to that evening's luau. Leslie had spied her friend Michiko there and talked to her for a while, but then Michiko had been forced to leave when her father, sheriff of the island's police department, went off duty for the evening and took his daughter home. Leslie had filled a plate with fruit and then, searching for a table, spotted Trudy seated at one, all alone. She instantly veered over there; normally she would have been a bit too shy to make initial overtures, but she felt drawn to Trudy, now that she knew more about her.

"Hi, Leslie," Trudy said, looking surprised.

"Hi, Trudy," Leslie replied. "Is anybody sitting here?"

"No, go ahead and sit down," Trudy offered, and Leslie did so, an excited feeling fluttering through her stomach. "Hey, that looks good."

"We always have great food at the luaus," Leslie said. "You can have some of mine if you want."

"Thanks." Trudy reached out with the fork that sat beside her own empty plate and speared a chunk of papaya off Leslie's. "So you live here, is that right?"

Leslie nodded, seizing the opening and explaining that she was Roarke's ward and how that had come about. Trudy listened with real interest, making Leslie feel even better; chronologically they were about seven years apart in age, but Leslie always felt a kinship with a fellow orphan, no matter how much older or younger that person might be than she.

Trudy nodded, her eyes glistening with understanding. "You were lucky to come here and live with Mr. Roarke." She paused to accept a glass of nonalcoholic punch from a passing native girl bearing a tray. "It's awful to say and I know it, but sometimes I wish my father had been an only child like my mother. I really think Aunt Mabel resented me from the day I was born, and when I had to move in with her, she made sure I knew she was being extremely generous."

Leslie bit her lip, then dared to point out, "But she still took you in."

"Oh, sure." Trudy rolled her eyes. "She had to. For one thing, she was named guardian in my father's will; and even if it weren't for that, there wasn't anybody else. Janet's always come first with Aunt Mabel and she lorded it over me all the time. I wanted to be friends with her—we're the same age, after all. But she thought she was better than me, and I learned in a hurry to stay in the background so they wouldn't turn on me. Well, at least not too much."

Leslie considered that. "I suppose having relatives isn't all it's cracked up to be…is that what you're saying? I'm asking only because both my parents and all my grandparents were only children, so I had no relatives left at all. There were never any cousins to hang out with, and my last grandparent died when I was eight. I always had to just sit and listen in whenever my friends talked about visits with their grandparents and cousins, and even now it's still uncomfortable for me to hear stuff like that."

"Frankly, it's better having no cousins at all than one like Janet," Trudy said and gave a long sigh. After a minute she turned to Leslie. "But you know your mother loved you, right? I mean, she turned over your care to Mr. Roarke. And it's pretty clear to me that Mr. Roarke doesn't resent your presence at all. He never tells you to get out of his way, or puts you down in front of anyone else, or anything like that."

"No, he's never done that," Leslie said softly. She looked thoughtfully at Trudy, then said, "Power or not, I don't care what they say. I came to the arena with Mr. Roarke right before supper and I saw you on the balance beam and the parallel bars. You are _so good_, Trudy! You're really terrific! Don't let your aunt and your cousin get you down. You have a real shot at winning, and if I were a judge, I'd give you the highest possible marks."

Trudy's pretty face brightened with a wide smile, bringing her small cleft chin into prominence. "Thanks, Leslie, that's sweet of you to say."

"All my friends and I are coming to watch the tournament tomorrow," Leslie said, "and I'll tell them who to root for. You're going to have a whole cheering section, so don't forget, we're on your side." She returned Trudy's grin.

Roarke came up to the table then. "Everything is well in hand here, Leslie, so we'd better go to the arena now and make sure the television crews are getting settled in. I hope you're enjoying the luau, Miss Brown."

"It's great," Trudy said. "Leslie and I were just getting to know each other. She's a really nice kid, Mr. Roarke."

"I certainly agree with you there," Roarke said and chuckled at Leslie's blush. "Good evening, Miss Brown. Leslie?"

"See you at the competition," Leslie said and got up, taking her plate with her. She munched on tropical fruit all the way to the car; when she had finished and folded the paper plate for later disposal, Roarke finally spoke.

"I see you were having quite a chat with Miss Brown," he remarked.

"She's really nice, Mr. Roarke," Leslie said enthusiastically. "I like her a lot, and I think she can win. She's great. I mean, it's not just that she's a nice person, but she's talented too. She's a terrific gymnast. And I think that power you gave her really put a lot of self-confidence in her."

"You think so?" Roarke inquired indulgently.

"I'm sure of it. I told her we saw her earlier this evening. I wanted her to know how good I think she is. I mean, after all, you've told me before that praise does a person a lot of good."

Roarke cast her an amused glance. "So I did. I'm happy to see you're taking that advice to heart, Leslie." She beamed at him and settled back in her seat, feeling good. She couldn't wait to see what happened at the competition tomorrow.


	8. Chapter 8

§ § § -- January 11, 1981

After breakfast the next morning, Roarke had Leslie sort the day's mail and do some scheduling for the month of March, handing her a stack of letters sent by future guests whose fantasies he had decided to grant later that year. By the time she filled that in and had booked up most of April as well, she had a crick in her neck from bending over Roarke's date book in her lap, and was relieved when she finally wrote in the last name and set aside the stack of envelopes. "Anything else, Mr. Roarke?" she asked.

"No, you may go to the arena and watch Miss Brown practice if you wish," Roarke said with a smile. "I'll be along later to check up on her. Thank you for your help."

"You're welcome. See you later," said Leslie and bounded out of the house, half running. She had it in mind to watch Trudy and Janet practicing side by side and comparing the two. Even she knew she was probably biased in Trudy's favor, which was the reason she wanted to see them performing together. It was her hope that her belief that Trudy was better would be justified.

She soon spotted Trudy going through warmup exercises in a corner and joined her. "I hope I'm not bothering you," she ventured.

Trudy glanced up and smiled wanly at her. "Hi, Leslie. No, you can watch if you want."

Leslie leaned over a little. "Are you okay?"

"My watch went missing last night. I can't imagine what happened to it. I accidentally broke curfew and I had to sneak in to avoid being disqualified. I'm still in the competition, I think…at least no one's said otherwise. But I feel like a fraud."

"Maybe it got lost on one of the trails somewhere," said Leslie.

Trudy shook her head. "I left it lying on my bed in my dorm room yesterday afternoon, and when I went to put it on again before the luau, it was gone." She stood up and began to rummage in her bag, pulling out a navy-blue warmup jacket and shrugging it on. "I guess I'm lucky it wasn't an expensive one."

Before Leslie could say anything, they both heard a male voice carry across to them, as if on a breeze. "Can you imagine the face on the matron when Trudy tried to explain that she lost her watch?"

Trudy stilled and looked over to her right, and Leslie followed her gaze; a muscular blond man in a spandex leotard stood talking to Mabel Martin, who smirked as the two girls watched and displayed a small golden object in the air. "Trudy should be more careful with her valuables, keep them locked up when she's practicing." Leslie's eyes widened with realization and she risked a sidelong glance at Trudy, whose face was slack with shock and realization. Mabel went on, "I'll just put this back in her room. You're sure Trudy's been disqualified?"

"Well," the man said, "I made her good and late last night." He paused, staring at Mabel. "Tell me something. I know why I got involved in this, but you…you have to hate Trudy an awful lot to do a thing like this. Your own niece! She's not a bad kid, you know."

A pained look crossed Mabel's features. "She's too much like her mother."

"Her mother's dead," the man said, puzzled. "Janet told me." Over the heads of a couple of other practicing gymnasts, Trudy and Leslie could both see Mabel's lowered head and the set of her profile, and the man's bewildered look. Even as they watched, the man abruptly seemed to make a connection and canted forward, staring hard at Mabel. "Good Lord…it's the mother you hate—your own sister-in-law!" he exclaimed.

"Six years ago this week," Mabel ground out, "on a highway driving too fast, she spun out on a curve, lost control…went over a cliff. She took my brother with her."

Her companion stared at her and shook his head, and Leslie swallowed back the rising mound in her throat and turned to Trudy, wondering what she could say in support. Trudy's eyes swam in tears; as Leslie opened her mouth, they spilled over and her face turned red. And as if to twist the knife even more, they heard Mabel again: "I just want my Janet to be the best."

Rage distorted Trudy's tear-streaked face, and before Leslie had any idea what she meant to do, she whirled around, found Janet making a run for the vault, and watched as she flipped neatly over it, landing squarely on her feet. Distracted by watching Janet, Leslie didn't see what Trudy meant to do till, out of nowhere, the edges of the mat Janet stood on seemed to spontaneously combust. The girl was instantly surrounded by fire. Janet gasped and raised her arms to shield her face.

"Trudy," Leslie began in entreaty, but she might as well not have been there at all. Trudy's gaze was fixed on Janet, tears still raining down her cheeks, rage glittering out of her still-flooded eyes. Janet screamed in terror as people began to crowd around the burning mat, looking for some way to rescue her; the flames began to eat into the mat, creeping towards the trapped gymnast. "Trudy!" Leslie tried again, still without result.

Just then she heard Roarke say sharply from behind, "Enough!" Still Trudy stood as if hypnotized, staring at Janet, who was still screaming and trying to shrink away from the advancing flames. Leslie watched, her stomach dancing to a mad beat, as Roarke shifted his concentration to the mat, narrowed his dark eyes and overrode Trudy's temporary power. Within seconds the flames were out, and Mabel had rushed for the sobbing Janet, cradling her daughter. Leslie watched Trudy, afraid for the older girl; there was pure torment on her face.

"No more, Miss Brown…no more," Roarke said flatly.

Finally Trudy looked at him, her face contorting, and all the pain and rejection she must have felt over the last six years exploded out of her in one heavy sob before she turned and fled the gym. Leslie watched her go, then peered at Janet, who was now surrounded by a crowd and being held by Mabel.

"Mr. Roarke, I don't think she meant Janet any real harm," she began.

Roarke turned to her a little impatiently. "I know you spoke with her at great length last night, Leslie, and I know you are squarely in her corner. And I also know you are well aware of her story and her point of view, particularly as you and she have quite a bit in common. But that doesn't excuse what she has done to her cousin! The power I gave her was never meant to be used in such a fashion, and she knew it—yet she let temptation and the desire for revenge overrule her common sense."

A strange look crossed Leslie's face and she suddenly shook her head with disgust. "Well, nobody's a saint, Mr. Roarke," she snapped, "except maybe you!" With that, she ran out, and Roarke stared after her in astonishment before sighing deeply and going over to make sure the Martins were all right.

He had assumed Leslie might go after Trudy in the hope of giving some comfort, but it turned out she had retreated to the main house and holed up in her bedroom. The door stood ajar and the room was silent; Roarke pushed it open and saw her curled up in the window seat, hugging her knees, a stubborn expression on her face. He waited, but she either didn't realize he was there or deliberately chose to ignore him. Either way, he was determined to get to the bottom of her unusual outburst. "Perhaps you'd like to talk, Leslie?" he offered, keeping his voice gentle.

She only shrugged sullenly, her expression changing not a whit. Roarke came to the window seat and paused nearby; it was wide enough for only one person, so he settled on the end of her bed and regarded her worriedly. "If you don't wish to talk, then you might consent to listen to me," he suggested.

Leslie turned her head slightly toward him. "What's there to say?"

"Tell me, Leslie, why you are so determined to defend Trudy Brown's actions when you know full well they were wrong," Roarke said, losing just enough of his patience to get her attention. "I have never heard you speak as you did at the arena. Is there more to this than you're revealing?"

Leslie gave a deep sigh but still refused to meet his gaze. "It's just that I can understand her wanting to give her aunt and her cousin payback for treating her like a pain in the behind," she said. "I know exactly how she feels. They resent her and she just can't take any more. It's pretty hard to be forced to live with and depend on someone who hates you and wishes you didn't exist."

Roarke regarded her with sudden understanding. "As Michael Hamilton did you and your sisters," he filled in what she hadn't said.

Leslie nodded, gaze downcast. "Uh-huh."

"Oh, child," Roarke said softly, reaching out and laying a hand on her shoulder, "you can't internalize the issues of everyone who seems to have a situation similar to your own. Though it may sound cruel, Leslie, it's necessary to maintain a level of detachment. Not to the point where you are cold and unfeeling, of course, just so that you aren't so heavily affected by the plights of others—for it's altogether possible that they may need your help, and to provide that help, you need a clear head." She finally turned fully and stared pensively at him. "Besides," he added, his voice softening, "you must learn to resolve your own problems with Michael Hamilton's actions. You can't harbor that resentment and anger, that desire for revenge, all your life. It will gradually eat away at your soul, until there is nothing left but a bitter core and many wasted years."

Leslie's gaze dropped slightly and lost focus as she considered his words. After quite some time she said in a small voice, "I guess you're right." She looked up at him again. "I'm only saying that I can see why Trudy did what she did."

Roarke nodded. "I understand, but she needs to learn the same lesson I've tried to explain to you. You must let it happen, child. Let her experience the consequences of her actions and the effects those consequences have on her. I know you aren't ready to face your own issues yet; but one day, when you are, I'll do what I can to help you. Ultimately, however, both you and Miss Brown must forge your own paths to full understanding. So let it happen for her, no matter how much you wish to do otherwise…all right?"

Leslie sighed and nodded. "I'll try, Mr. Roarke," she said. "I really will."

He smiled at her. "I know," he said. "That's all I can ask. Now let's go…we have work to do, and limited time in which to do it."

When they finally came back downstairs, they found Tattoo on the phone with someone, mostly listening and nodding. When he saw them coming, he said into the phone, "Just a minute, please," and turned to Roarke. "Boss, there's a big problem with the Boggs fantasy. Take a look at all this stuff." He gestured at a pile of papers on Roarke's desk.

"Who's on the telephone?" Roarke asked.

"Travel agent," Tattoo said succinctly. "Seems Otis Boggs bought an around-the-world trip, and they want the down payment on it."

"Then why are they calling here?" Leslie asked.

"Probably because he's our guest," Tattoo said and shrugged. Into the phone he said, "Look, something just came up. Let me get back to you." He hung up quickly before the person on the other end had a chance to protest, while Roarke, who had sat at the desk, took a look at each paper with a surprised frown.

"Did someone drop off these invoices here?" Roarke asked at last.

"A lot of someones did," Tattoo said. "I was just waiting for you to get back so we could figure out what's gonna happen."

"First of all, call Hadley Boggs and have him come here," Roarke said, "and then we're going to find out what lies at the bottom of all this."

Half an hour later they were on the patio just outside the French shutter doors with Hadley Boggs, while Roarke read off a long list of items that Hadley's parents and sister had splurged on. "…and one very expensive automobile; a yacht; a string of polo ponies; half an interest in a professional basketball team; one lynx coat—full-length!—_two_ mink coats…"

"Boss," Tattoo broke in, "don't forget the world cruise and the life membership to the country club."

Hadley, who had been sitting dejectedly, got up and approached Roarke in desperation. "Mr. Roarke, this fantasy's gone all wrong."

Roarke said, "Mr. Boggs, I feel it is only fair to advise you that some of the creditors are demanding the money already. Fortunately, many of the items in question have never been used, and can therefore be returned; but there is one very expensive item that cannot be overlooked."

Hadley nodded. "Yeah, the island off Florida," he said. Tattoo and Leslie had already been apprised of the sale of this piece of land to Otis Boggs by a fellow named Roger Fox, with whose daughter Hadley had managed to fall in love.

"Your father signed a two-million-dollar promissory note," Roarke said. "Unfortunately, I have just ascertained that the real estate in question is nothing more than a mud bank, in a swamp, inhabited solely by antisocial alligators."

"Lovely," commented Leslie.

"Yeah, that's wonderful," sighed Hadley. "Yeah, that Roger Fox is a con man all right. His daughter told me so. But he can't get blood out of a turnip."

"But," Roarke pointed out, "he can get a farm out of a two-million-dollar promissory note…don't you think?"

Hadley stared at him in horror. "You mean Fox'd foreclose on my ma and pa's farm?" Roarke made a sympathetic face, and Hadley groaned. "Mr. Roarke, what'm I gonna do?"

Roarke paced back to where Tattoo and Leslie stood, pausing beside the girl. "Well, a bright young man like you should know that most confidence men are successful because they play on the victim's greed. Does that not suggest something to you, Mr. Boggs?"

Hadley considered this for a moment, then looked up, his face alight. "Yeah…that sure as shootin' does! Can I count on you folks to help?"

"All the way," Tattoo said eagerly, and Leslie nodded.

Roarke held up a hand. "As long as the idea is yours, Mr. Boggs."

"Oh, it's mine all right…all mine!" Hadley said, grinning hugely, and shook hands with all three of them. "Be back soon."

When he had left, Roarke sent for Trudy Brown, who when she came in the door looked as if she'd been undergoing Chinese water torture. Her face was pale and her eyes rimmed red from crying. After her long talk with Roarke, Leslie knew better than to say a word; but she tried to convey her sympathy and support for the distraught girl through her eyes. Trudy barely looked at her; Roarke's anger consumed all her attention.

"You were given a special power," Roarke began, turning from the bookshelves in the corner, "to help you make things happen and thereby gain confidence, self-worth, so you could utilize to the fullest your abilities—not to wreak revenge on others!"

Trudy was driven at last to protest. "They tricked me! They tried to have me disqualified! They deserve to be punished!" She glanced at Leslie as if for support; Leslie smiled slightly, but she saw Roarke cast her one quick, sharp look and restrained herself to that only.

"Punished? By you, Miss Brown?" Roarke demanded. "Do you have that right?"

"I didn't actually hurt anyone," Trudy said weakly.

Roarke shook his head. "You're wrong. Vengeance is always costly to someone—in this case to you, Miss Brown." Trudy looked away in anguish, clutching her stomach with one arm, clearly on the precarious edge of still more tears. Roarke went to the mirror and parted the curtained panels again. "Look at the price you paid."

Fearfully Trudy turned in spite of herself to see the image in the fog-filled mirror; what appeared therein startled Leslie as much as Trudy. The young gymnast was clad now in a shabby dress that was little more than rags, and her hair was in incredible disarray, an enormous, disheveled rat's nest of frizzy split ends. Her face was pale and colorless except for her red eyes. The threatening tears spilled over as Trudy shot one desperate glance at Roarke and twisted away from the image, then back, as if hoping it had changed. "That's not me," she finally said in a tiny, tearful voice, shaking her head.

"This mirror reflects only the truth," said Tattoo.

Trudy stared at him, then again at Leslie, who winced and looked at the floor, no longer able to meet Trudy's gaze. "That's how you see yourself now," Roarke said, his voice soft but steely. "Your beauty was never a fantasy, Miss Brown. It was part of the gentle, sensitive girl you used to be. Unfortunately, that girl no longer exists."

"No!" wailed Trudy. Leslie flinched, still studying the floor. "No, Mr. Roarke, no!" Breaking down completely, Trudy fled the house.

Roarke looked at Tattoo, who nodded knowingly, and then at Leslie; a pensive look crossed his features, and he went to her. Tattoo turned around and noticed Leslie for the first time. "Hey," he said, "it's nothing to do with you."

"I know," she said. "But it was all I could do to keep my mouth shut." She gave Roarke a plaintive look. "Is she going to be disqualified? Because if she is, I don't want to go to the tournament. There's nobody else there I want to root for—least of all Janet Martin."

"Wait and see, Leslie," Roarke said softly, brushing back her hair. "Wait and see."

‡ ‡ ‡

In about an hour or so they put Hadley Boggs' plan into action at the pool. Though Leslie herself wasn't part of it, she still came along anyway to see what was going to happen. Roarke turned to Tattoo with a sharp look and said, "Now, Tattoo, I want you to do precisely as we discussed—_precisely_, no more nor less. Do you understand?"

"Don't worry, boss," Tattoo said with a grin. "I've got it all under control."

"You'll want to hit him over the head with an Oscar statuette," said Leslie innocently. Tattoo rolled his eyes, and Roarke peered dubiously at her; Hadley Boggs dipped his head and snickered.

"I'd rather he didn't," Tattoo muttered. "Can I just get on with it?" Roarke nodded and gestured him forward; and Tattoo stepped out of the pool entrance near which the foursome had secreted themselves and approached a table where Roger Fox sat with a drink and an elegant-looking telephone at hand. "Hello, Mr. Fox. You have a minute?"

"Sure, sit down," Fox replied, indicating the extra chair. "You sure run a wonderful operation here."

"Barely marginal," Tattoo replied with a shrug, spreading his hands. He produced a large cigar from inside his jacket and offered it to Fox, who accepted. "But I heard about your island. What's it like? Plenty of water?"

"Plenty," Fox said. "All around it."

"Good beaches?" Tattoo inquired, rising and circling Fox's chair.

"Not bad," Fox replied, peering at him oddly.

"I'll take it," Tattoo announced.

"I've already sold it," said Fox.

"How much?"

"Two million," Fox declaimed, as if to impress him.

Tattoo chuckled derisively. "I'll give you four." From their hiding place, Hadley Boggs looked a little stunned; Roarke's eyes popped for a moment, then he looked away in disgust. Leslie just grinned.

"That's big money for such a little guy," Fox remarked.

"You know that guy I work for?" Tattoo asked, as if in confidence.

"Roarke?" prompted Fox.

Tattoo nodded. "Yes, Mr. Roarke. Well, I do all the work around here, and he gets all the credit. I'm tired of it!" Hadley began to grin now, and Roarke's expression grew steadily less tolerant; Leslie, aware that Tattoo was ad-libbing like mad, fell against the wall with helpless giggles. Roarke shot her a dirty look, which merely made her giggle all the harder. "I'm fed up," Tattoo went on. "I'm gonna have my own island, and I'm gonna call it Incredible Reef." Leslie broke into a fresh gale of snickering.

At that point Roarke decided Tattoo had had enough fun and emerged from the pool entrance. "Ah, Tattoo…there is a problem in the kitchen. Please attend to it right away, huh?" he suggested, not unreasonably.

But Tattoo wasn't quite finished. Conspiratorially he leaned toward Fox and muttered, "You see what I mean? Call me later." With that he left, Fox staring in amazement after him, and Roarke put his part of the plan into motion.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Fox, I've been looking for you," he said.

"You too?" Fox said, even more startled.

"May I?" Roarke inquired, pulling out a chair; at Fox's acquiescence, he sat down, then leaned forward. "I will come straight to the point: your island. I wish to purchase it, for cash."

Fox stared at him in bewilderment. "Suddenly everybody wants to buy my Florida island! Why?"

Roarke chuckled. "Please, Mr. Fox, we are both men of the world—let's not play games!" That was Hadley's cue, and he winked at Leslie before striding across the concrete siding to Fox's table, carrying a newspaper that Roarke had had printed up especially for the charade. After hearing the story, the paper had been only too happy to run it off.

"Mr. Fox!" Hadley called out excitedly. "You're the kindest, most generous man in the world!" He beamed at the con man, whose face grew quite flummoxed.

"I am?" Fox said blankly.

Hadley grinned and dropped the paper on the table. "Gold, Mr. Fox! Strike was made on the island you sold my pa." The headline screamed, _GOLD STRIKE_, and underneath that was printed, _Gold Fever Sweeps Island—Bigger Than California Gold Rush_. Fox stared at it, putting on a pair of reading glasses to get a better look.

Roarke sighed with well-feigned resignation and got up. "Now the cat is out of the bag."

Out of nowhere, Otis Boggs came barreling into the pool area, and Hadley caught sight of him and played cheerfully along. "There's my pa. He's gonna bless ya, Mr. Fox. So's my ma, so's my sister. Every Boggs in Boggs' Hogg is gonna praise your name! Thank you, thank you!" Energetically he pumped Fox's hand while Roarke looked on, and then stood up straight. "Hey, Pa! Wait'll you hear!" He ran off to meet his father.

Fox and Roarke both watched him go before Fox popped out of his seat and yanked his glasses off. "Roarke," he said desperately, "get me out of this deal and you're in for ten percent." Roarke turned and stared at him incredulously.

Hadley and Otis came back, Otis beaming like a lighthouse. "Mr. Fox, what can I say? My own private island, and all this gold!"

"What island is that?" Fox asked, trying to play dumb.

"The one you sold my pa," Hadley reminded him.

"Oh, that island! We talked about it, but he wasn't interested!"

Otis' face went thunderous. "You can't get away with it, Foxy, you can't get away with it! Mr. Roarke knows our deal!"

"Roarke, tell him," Fox urged, as if he knew something the Boggs men didn't.

Roarke smiled. "Well, it certainly would appear that Mr. Boggs didn't sign a formal contract," he said, "but if he decides to take action, legal proceedings could drag on for months, perhaps years. Depositions, personal backgrounds dug into, embarrassing skeletons released from closets, perhaps… Why not consider a settlement? Say, uh…a nuisance fee."

"I'll buy that," Fox said.

"How about you, Mr. Boggs?" Roarke inquired.

Both Otis and Hadley tried to speak at once, but finally Otis held up a hand. "Wait a minute…just wait a minute," he said to his son. "Now I don't know much about land, but I do know some bad things about lawyers. Now this could be just the time to square things out of court." Fox eyed him, then Roarke, watching them both carefully.

Roarke beamed. "Splendid! In that case, Mr. Fox, please be kind enough to make out a check for…oh, one hundred thousand dollars."

"It would be a pleasure," Fox said, tapping Roarke's shoulder with the newspaper; and with that he took a seat and cheerfully scrawled in a checkbook while the others looked on and Leslie watched from the entrance, where she was still concealed. After a minute Fox tore out the check and offered it to Otis. "Mr. Boggs, here's your check."

Roarke took it instead. "I'm sorry, Mr. Boggs, but this check is part of the fantasy."

"Oh sure, well…" Otis shrugged good-naturedly. "Easy come, easy go."

"Pa, you'll never learn about money," Hadley said resignedly and put an arm around his father's shoulders. "Come on, let's get out of here." They left, and Roarke took a seat at Fox's table again.

"Say, Roarke, you're neat," Fox remarked, clearly impressed with what he believed Roarke had just pulled off.

"Oh, thank you," Roarke replied warmly, smiling and studying the check he held.

"Y'know something? You and I'd make sweet partners." Roarke made a dismissive gesture, and Fox leaned in his direction. "Now if you don't mind, I'll take that check."

"I do mind," Roarke said, losing not an iota of warmth in his voice, but every bit from his eyes and smile. "I will hold the check."

"Suit yourself," Fox said, sitting back, "but it's not worth the paper it's written on."

"In monetary terms, no, I know that," Roarke replied, still smiling. "And yet to me, it has infinite value. If perchance one day, it should come to my ears that some unfortunate person has bought the Statue of Liberty, or perhaps an island on the water, from you, this rubber check will very swiftly find its way to the bunker squad." Fox's eyebrows shot up as he began to realize just how neatly he'd been had. "So on this lovely last day of your visit to Fantasy Island, Mr. Fox, let us call this check your certificate of graduation to the society of honest labors." Fox gaped at him, looking thwarted; Roarke smiled in quiet satisfaction and tucked the worthless check into his jacket pocket. Leslie grinned to herself: thanks to her guardian and a quick-thinking young man, Fox had been outFoxed!

* * *

_Posted November 25, 2009: happy birthday, Sr. Montalbán, wherever you are!_


	9. Chapter 9

§ § § -- January 11, 1981

Having taken care of the Boggs fantasy, they returned to the main house on foot by a path that took them to the terrace out back. Leslie was slightly surprised; Roarke had earlier set up an appointment to see Trudy Brown there, but he didn't seem to be in any hurry to get there. She considered asking, but by the time she made up her mind about whether to say anything, they were nearly there anyway. In fact, they arrived on the patio just in time to hear low voices, and then after a moment, Trudy saying, "And you…I always knew you were good-looking, but you're more beautiful than ever. You really are." They stepped quietly onto the terrace, where they saw the young man who'd been speaking with Trudy earlier yesterday reach over and pluck the flower from a bud vase that stood on Roarke's desk, handing it to Trudy.

Roarke spoke then: "Congratulations. You are seeing things clearly again, Miss Brown." Trudy and her young man turned curiously, and both smiled when they saw who was there. "And," went on Roarke, "I hope you win the gymnastics competition—but you'd better hurry! It begins in five minutes."

Trudy swept her gaze across all three of them, smiled at Leslie, then whispered to Roarke, "Thank you." Roarke smiled back, and Trudy and her companion rushed out.

"Shouldn't we go too?" Leslie hinted at Roarke. "I'm supposed to meet the other girls there. They're probably wondering where I am."

"Then we'd certainly better make haste," Roarke agreed teasingly. "We wouldn't want you and your friends to miss the chance to cheer on Miss Brown."

Though the threesome were quite nearly the last ones to arrive, Leslie's friends had saved her a place and insisted that she come sit with them, all waving madly to get her attention. Roarke and Tattoo followed her over to them, and one of the arena staff, recognizing the two men, provided chairs for them. Leslie settled in beside Michiko and told the other girls, "We're rooting for Trudy Brown."

"We are?" asked Michiko, amused.

"Who's Trudy Brown?" Lauren wanted to know.

"She's one of our guests," Leslie said. "I'll tell you guys at school tomorrow, but believe me, if anyone deserves to win, she does. I promised her we'd all root for her."

"Oh, well, in that case, it'd be just plain mean not to," Maureen said, and the girls all laughed and settled themselves in to watch the competition. They could see TV cameras here and there; the Fantasy Island Invitational was to be broadcast around the world.

By the time the competition's final event—tumbling—was to take place, the girls had all cheered themselves hoarse, and Roarke and Tattoo had been watching them with great amusement, even though from time to time Tattoo had done some raucous cheering of his own. A voice came over the speaker system: "Miss Trudy Brown, now performing, needs a 9.8 score to win." The audience applause died out and a hush settled over the arena.

"Boss, it's gonna be tough," Tattoo remarked in a low tone.

Roarke nodded. "Yes, Tattoo, very rough indeed," he said. He saw Leslie watching him and realized she had overheard. "Just keep cheering for her," he advised quietly.

"We sure will, Mr. Roarke," Myeko told him enthusiastically, and he grinned.

Trudy's routine lasted no more than about two minutes, but she put everything she had into it. The girls watched her intently; Roarke and Tattoo glanced at each other once. Trudy's male friend stood watching from a corner; and Mabel and Janet Martin, with the young man Trudy and Leslie had overheard talking to Mabel about trying to disqualify Trudy that morning, stood beside them. He was expressionless; Janet was scowling, and Mabel stood biting her fingernails with anxiety. All eyes were glued to Trudy.

The flawless, sparkling routine came to an end and applause and cheers roared out, pierced now and then by whistles. Trudy, beaming, stood with arms outstretched, casting nervous glances at the judges. Leslie and her friends looked at one another worriedly.

The first judge displayed a 9.6, the second a 9.8. Mabel put a comforting arm around a grim-faced Janet. The third judge showed a 9.9, and now Roarke and Tattoo looked at each other, while Leslie and her friends grew restive with excitement. Finally the fourth judge revealed another 9.8, and the applause and cheers grew deafening.

The last judge eventually came down and shifted the final-score sign so that Trudy's official score stood at the needed 9.8. Leslie and her friends promptly went crazy, screaming and cheering till their throats hurt; they were pretty much drowned out despite their efforts by all the rest of the attendees.

"Boss, she did it! She won!" Tattoo burst out happily.

"Yes, my friend," Roarke agreed, "Trudy Brown made it happen!"

§ § § -- January 12, 1981

An enormous entourage arrived at the plane dock Monday morning when the Boggs family came to board the plane. Otis helped Mrs. Boggs out of the car, and two newlywed couples drew up behind them, all beaming. "Now Mr. Roarke," Otis Boggs remarked with pride, "that is what I call a first-rate wedding." They were all still decked out for the ceremonies that had taken place not half an hour earlier; the brides were resplendent, the grooms elegant in their blue tuxes. Only Mrs. Boggs seemed ill at ease and had taken her leave with only a few words of farewell.

"Oh, splendid," Roarke said now, "but Mrs. Boggs seems a little preoccupied."

"I know…she's been that way ever since we got here," Otis said in confusion.

Roarke smiled. "A woman who has worked hard all her life to take care of her family, and believes that she's important to them…and then suddenly she's surrounded by servants. She's not allowed to mend clothes, cook meals, do anything. Her husband and children are preoccupied with new toys. She feels she's not needed anymore…not loved as much, maybe." The bridal couples looked guiltily at one another. "Surely you understand, Mr. Boggs, don't you?" Roarke prompted gently.

Otis looked reflective. "I think I do. I think I do…and thank you, Mr. Roarke." He went to join his wife, and the bridal couples made their farewells and followed.

The second car came around bearing Trudy Brown with Mabel and Janet Martin; as the car pulled away, the latter two came to join them, and Mabel put her arm around Trudy's shoulders, just as she had with Janet. The two Martin women actually looked happy, more relaxed and cheerful. "Well, I found out something here, Mr. Roarke," Mabel admitted.

"What Mom's trying to say," Janet began, then grinned sheepishly. "Well, we're not the same two people who arrived here."

Roarke smiled. "Fantasy Island changes most people."

"And always for the better," added Tattoo.

Mabel and Janet said their goodbyes and made their way to the dock, and Trudy turned to her hosts. "Thank you for everything, Mr. Roarke, Tattoo…and Leslie," she said, grinning at the young girl. "I never could have won that tournament without the special power you gave me."

"And here my friends and I all thought it was our cheering that did it," Leslie said with a comical little pout, and the others laughed.

"Actually, you're wrong, Miss Brown," Roarke told her. "The power came from within you."

Trudy looked stunned with disbelief. "I won…on my own?"

"Absolutely. It's the only way to win," Roarke said. "Oh—by the way, there is a certain someone who would like to sit beside you on the return trip." He turned toward the dock, where Trudy's male friend stood with a hopeful look on his face.

Trudy lit up. "Bud!" she exclaimed softly, as he mouthed _hi_ at her. Trudy whirled back to her hosts and, to their surprise, planted a kiss on Roarke's cheek, then another on Tattoo's, before hugging Leslie. "Thank you all," she said once more, then hurried away to join Bud at the dock while her aunt stood watching with a smile. Leslie waved after her.

"Boss, I hope she comes back soon," Tattoo commented.

"Why?" Roarke inquired with interest as Leslie tuned in to their conversation.

Tattoo grinned. "I like the way she says goodbye," he said, patting his cheek. With a laugh, Roarke nodded agreement, fingering his own cheek for just a moment.

"I think you're both blushing," Leslie said teasingly and burst into delighted laughter when Tattoo shot her a dirty look and Roarke gave her a rather sharp one of his own before relenting and considering with amusement that she just might be right.

§ § § -- April 6, 2006

Julie was goggle-eyed when they finished. "Who'd've thought she'd be like that? I mean, it's really funny—nobody's ever heard of Janet Martin, but Trudy Brown's a big name in the gymnastics world. She still does a lot of commentating at televised competitions."

"And all because she learned something that weekend," said Roarke. "Unfortunately, Leslie didn't—or so it seemed to me, at least. The very next weekend, she identified so closely with a guest that I considered forbidding her to have anything to do with the business during those two days."

"You're too empathetic, my Rose," Christian observed with a fond smile, "but I wouldn't have you any other way. How did it happen?"

§ § § -- January 17, 1981

The first guest to emerge from the plane was a mustachioed man with bushy red curls and an uncertain look about him. He stopped and glanced to either side, then smiled in a very anticipatory manner. "This young man looks like he's ready to have a good time," Tattoo remarked.

"As he is indeed, Tattoo," Roarke said. "That is Mr. Kermit Dobbs, a bachelor and high-school art teacher from Stafford, Kansas."

"What's his fantasy?" Tattoo queried with a grin. "To pass the weekend with no kids around?" Leslie swatted him playfully on the shoulder.

Roarke smiled at their exchange. "Oh no, no, in fact, he's a very dedicated teacher; but, by his own admission, a very mediocre artist. His fantasy is to possess, for forty-eight hours, a _real_ talent, so he may paint one memorable canvas."

Tattoo grinned with understanding. "Can we do that, boss?"

"With some difficulty, yes," Roarke said. "Such talent is difficult to find, even here on Fantasy Island."

"Then just how did we find it?" Tattoo asked.

"We, uh, borrowed it, my friend, from the only source available at this time…a certain Mr. Patrick O'Herlihy, who is as known for his amorous vices as his paintings."

Tattoo and Leslie instantly understood all the talking Roarke had been doing that week with a heretofore anonymous Irish artist—and what was more, Tattoo recognized the name. "Uh-oh," he said, and that was clearly all that needed saying.

"You know him?" Leslie asked, and Tattoo scowled.

"Let's just say I know _of_ him," the Frenchman said and shook his head. Leslie grinned, then noticed Roarke's concerned gaze fixed on the plane, where a pretty, heavily pregnant young woman with golden hair and a sweet smile stepped out the hatch.

"Ah," he said softly. "Mrs. Elizabeth Blake, from Elmhurst, Illinois."

"Boss, does her fantasy include a baby? She looks like she's gonna have a baby very soon," Tattoo observed.

"Very soon indeed. Mrs. Blake is over eight months pregnant." He glanced at Leslie, a rush of memory assaulting him. So had Shannon Hamilton been when she'd visited the island.

"What's her fantasy?" Tattoo prodded his boss along, as usual.

"A most wonderful and unusual one, and one I'm sure you'll be very interested in, Leslie," Roarke said. "Her fantasy is to look into the future—to see the child she will otherwise never see." Leslie felt her stomach go into action and let her gaze stray to the woman. "Mrs. Blake is very ill, and she knows she will not survive the birth of her baby." Leslie wondered how that could be possible; the lady certainly looked healthy enough, and she wasn't in a wheelchair or being assisted along the dock in any way. Perhaps the strain of giving birth would be enough to defeat an immune system ravaged by some silent, unstoppable killer disease… Leslie gave her head a hard shake to dispel that train of thought and realized Roarke was watching her; when she met his gaze, he smiled at her before raising the glass he had been given and greeting their latest guests. She felt Tattoo slip a hand into hers and squeezed his in gratitude, without ever taking her eyes from Elizabeth Blake.

‡ ‡ ‡

Roarke had known that Leslie wouldn't let him grant Elizabeth Blake's fantasy without her along, and had thus readily agreed when she insisted he take her to the bungalow where Mrs. Blake was staying. She eyed him in surprise as they drove down the Ring Road to the small lane where the bungalows were clustered in a grouping made to resemble a small neighborhood. "I thought you were going to tell me no," she finally said.

Roarke laughed. "Did you indeed? I knew there was no holding you back from being a witness to this one, and you yourself won't become involved in anything dangerous; so I saw no reason to object when you asked to be included." He smiled. "This brings back many memories for me. Mrs. Blake is the first woman since your mother to visit the island while in such an advanced state of pregnancy, so that alone makes her fantasy unusual."

Leslie followed him onto the porch and watched while he tapped the door knocker; after a couple of seconds Elizabeth Blake opened it. She had changed into a blue satin dress and looked as refreshed as she could after her long flight, considering her condition. "Ah, Mr. Roarke. Come in."

"Thank you," he said and ushered Leslie in before him; she cast Elizabeth Blake a shy smile, and Elizabeth returned it.

"Do you work here too?" she asked Leslie.

Leslie turned red and shrugged self-consciously. "Sort of," she said.

Roarke chuckled and said, "This is Leslie Hamilton, my ward since almost two years ago. Her mother had a fantasy very similar in nature to your own, in which she requested to see Leslie in the future." He outlined the purpose of Shannon Hamilton's fantasy while Elizabeth listened with interest. "After we discovered what would happen to the child, her mother arranged to have her brought here after the passing of Leslie's family."

"How sad," Elizabeth said. "I'm so sorry about your family, Leslie. But I'm sure you must love it here."

Leslie nodded. "There's no place else I'd rather be," she said. "But…I'm sure you don't want to stand around here carrying on about me. You're here for your own fantasy."

"Indeed so," said Roarke and turned to Elizabeth. "Are you ready to begin?"

Elizabeth nodded and drew in a deep breath. "Yes, but I must admit…to look into the future, to see a time after my own death…it's frightening as well as exciting. I hope I can deal with it."

"I'm sure you can," Roarke said. "The essential thing is to remember that you are an observer. No one will be able to see you or hear you."

"I understand," said Elizabeth, looking somewhat apprehensive.

Roarke nodded. "Very well, then, will you come this way?" The three of them moved up two steps onto a small, open, tiled area with one wall made entirely of glass, into which a set of wooden French shutters had been built and now stood open. Just beyond was a small terrace with two chairs, closed off by thickly-leafed trees. Roarke gestured to the opening. "That is your window into the future. Look at it." A thick white fog obscured the scene outside the door. "Concentrate, Mrs. Blake."

Elizabeth stared with wonder as the fog finally cleared away and revealed an outdoor scene in an attractive, upper-middle-class neighborhood. "That's my house," Elizabeth exclaimed, amazed. "And that's Steven, my husband!"

Roarke smiled and, taking Leslie's hand, brought both her and Elizabeth forward into the scene itself. Leslie looked around with interest before focusing on the dark-haired man and the small pale-blonde girl who stood near the driveway of the house Elizabeth had indicated was her own home. As they watched, he lifted the little girl and settled her onto a brand-new bicycle with training wheels. "There you go," they heard him say. "Daddy's got you. Keep pedaling and look straight ahead, and remember, you're five years old today!" He kissed the top of the child's head. "You'll do just fine!"

"'Kay, Daddy!" the child said happily, and her father chuckled.

"A girl," Elizabeth breathed, smiling from ear to ear. "I had a beautiful little girl!"

"Yes," Roarke agreed, smiling in response, "she's very beautiful. Your husband named her Lisa, after you."

Steven and Lisa started down the street, with Steven encouraging the little girl to pedal the wheels. After a minute he gave her a gentle push, and for another moment Lisa sent the tiny bike forward on her own before glancing off to one side. The bike followed her gaze, and she bumped into the low stone wall at the edge of the sidewalk, tumbling over. "Daddy!" she cried. Elizabeth gasped and tensed, as if to run for her; Roarke took her arm in gentle restraint. Leslie tried to remember what she had been like learning to ride a bike; but all she knew was that her father would never have done for her what Steven Blake was doing for his little girl.

Steven ran to Lisa and lifted her to her feet, dusting off her pink overalls. Lisa, unhurt, beamed up at him, and he chuckled and hugged her. Elizabeth relaxed slightly.

"Daddy, I love you," Lisa chirped.

"And I love you!" Steven assured her, brushing back her hair.

Elizabeth settled her stance and smiled, simultaneously on the verge of tears. "They're happy, aren't they?" she asked. "I knew Steven would be a wonderful father."

"I am glad you are pleased," said Roarke gravely, studying her with the sort of expression Leslie had long since learned meant less-happy moments lay ahead. She wished they could simply leave it at that.

They retreated a few steps and abruptly found themselves standing inside the bungalow again. "This is the first of three journeys you will be making into the future," Roarke said, still in a solemn tone.

Elizabeth seemed not to notice it; she was too filled with the wonder of what she had just seen. "Thank you," she said softly to Roarke, who smiled a little and nodded. The look in his dark eyes made Leslie fear for the next trip into the future.

She decided not to mention it; Roarke wouldn't reveal anything to her in any case, so there was no use asking. Instead she remained silent till they got back to the main house, where Tattoo and Kermit Dobbs, the art teacher from Kansas, were waiting. There were paintings all around the study, at which Dobbs stared in amazement. "Your collection must be priceless, Mr. Roarke," he said wonderingly. "Van Gogh, Monet, Renoir…"

"Part of the result of a lifetime of collecting, Mr. Dobbs," Roarke said with a smile.

Dobbs stopped in front of a painting that sat on an easel. "Oh…what have we here?"

"One of my favorites, Mr. Dobbs," Roarke said, his smile growing wider. "Tattoo painted that one."

"No kidding!" Dobbs exclaimed, eyeing Tattoo with new respect. Tattoo reddened and Leslie grinned.

"I have one of his paintings myself," she said. "It was a birthday present last year—one of the two best ones I got."

Dobbs chuckled. "If I could paint that well, I wouldn't have had to save up for this fantasy."

"Oh, well, it's nothing…I just dashed it off," Tattoo said dismissively, though it was clear he was delighted by the praise.

"Well, take it from a real hack," Dobbs remarked, "your dash has a lot of class." He turned to Roarke. "You really don't know what this fantasy means to me, Mr. Roarke—a guy who's been hiding his paintings in closets his whole life. After this weekend, I'll go back to what I really am, a lousy artist—but satisfied and content."

"Perhaps, Mr. Dobbs, but I should remind you that satisfaction and contentment are qualities that arise from within one's own character," said Roarke. "All I can provide you is opportunity."

"You will have to provide your own dash," Tattoo put in.

Dobbs chuckled again and glanced once more at Tattoo's painting. "Yes. Well, I'm ready. What are we waiting for?"

"Please have a seat, Mr. Dobbs, won't you?" Roarke invited. "Tattoo?"

Leslie retreated behind the desk, more than content to simply play spectator, while Tattoo lifted a wooden box and went around front to stand beside Roarke, who settled atop the desk itself. Dobbs took a seat in one of the chairs. "Such talent as you request," Roarke began, "is an extremely scarce commodity." Dobbs nodded understanding. "It is so rare, in fact, that it must be borrowed from a person naturally gifted with such genius." He reached over and unlatched the box Tattoo held, lifting the lid to reveal a paintbrush nestled in the green-velvet lining. Tattoo wore an extremely somber look; Leslie could just see his profile and wondered if he knew something about this fantasy that perhaps even Roarke didn't.

"This brush," Tattoo explained, "belongs to an artist with all sorts of talents." He slid a faintly sly look at Roarke. "Right, boss?"

"All kinds, yes," agreed Roarke through a chuckle that seemed to carry just the faintest sinister note (at least to Leslie). His smile became a very wide and knowing grin for a moment; then he focused on their guest. "Please take the brush, Mr. Dobbs."

Kermit Dobbs reached into the box and lifted out the brush while Roarke and Tattoo watched. "Grip the brush," Roarke directed.

Dobbs sat back and held it casually in his left hand, staring up at Roarke as if waiting for further instructions. But Roarke shook his head. "Oh, no, no, no…very tightly, Mr. Dobbs." He made a fist to demonstrate, and Dobbs did as told, holding onto the paintbrush so hard that his fist shook. His face went blank and his gaze locked onto Roarke's, and for a long moment there was silence, during which everyone was completely still. Leslie, feeling the effect of whatever power Roarke was exercising, thought she saw a swirl of half-mixed paint colors in the air, revolving in a slow, mesmerizing sort of way, and had to avert her eyes lest she get accidentally caught up in the spell.

Not till Roarke stood up was the silence broken. "Tattoo will see that you are supplied with paints and other necessities," he said, rising from the desk. "You now have only to go forth and transform your genius into a work of art."

Dobbs got up and took a few steps aside, as though a little drunk from the power he suddenly carried; then he looked at Roarke and asked cautiously, "I'm an artist?"

Roarke chuckled as if harboring some delicious secret. "Oh, yes!"

Dobbs finally cracked a smile that within a second covered his entire face and sparkled out of his eyes. "I'm raring to go. Come on, Tattoo!"

Tattoo turned to Roarke with a quizzical look, and Roarke gestured him out; as if released from school, Tattoo scrambled out behind Dobbs, toting the box. Roarke watched them go, and Leslie got up and joined him. "What was all that with the paintbrush?" she wanted to know.

"What a question, Leslie Susan," Roarke said in surprise. "All the talents Mr. Dobbs needed for his fantasy to be fulfilled were stored within that brush. It needed only a little prompting to transfer those talents from the brush to the artist."

"Or maybe just a little spellcasting," Leslie suggested, receiving only a secretive smile in reply. She smiled and shook her head; she should know better by now than to expect explanations. But even Tattoo was bewildered by some of Roarke's abilities, so she knew at least that she wasn't alone. And pretty soon, she was going to see the next manifestation of those abilities in Elizabeth Blake's increasingly fascinating fantasy.


	10. Chapter 10

§ § § -- January 17, 1981

Roarke and Leslie joined Elizabeth Blake for lunch, and afterward Roarke and Elizabeth lingered over cups of tea while Leslie enjoyed a glass of mango juice. They made a little light conversation through the meal, and Elizabeth told them a little about how she had arrived at her decision to come to the island. "I have a rare blood disorder," she explained. "Steven and I knew it would be a risk to have a child, but I didn't want to leave this earth without leaving a part of myself behind. My doctor said sometimes women with my disorder can have a child or two without risk, but it turns out I wasn't one of the lucky ones."

"I see," said Roarke. "I am terribly sorry, Mrs. Blake."

"We both thought it wasn't fair that I wouldn't get to see our baby," Elizabeth went on, absently stirring her tea. "We meant for me to come earlier, but we spent so long arguing with my doctor about it before he finally approved my trip, I was more than seven months pregnant before you agreed to grant my fantasy. And Steven and I were afraid I'd run out of time and give birth without ever having this chance." She patted her swollen middle gently. "Maybe Lisa sensed I wanted this so badly, and she's stayed there so I can have the chance to know her a little before…"

Silence fell in the wake of her statement, and Leslie finally ventured, "Well, at least we know Lisa's going to have a loving father, and he sounds like the kind of guy who'll tell her all about you when she's old enough to understand. I'm sure he won't let your memory die."

Elizabeth smiled at her. "Thank you, Leslie," she said softly.

Eventually Roarke set his teacup down, with a neutral expression that Leslie wasn't sure she liked, and inquired, "Are you ready for your second look into the future, Mrs. Blake?"

Eagerly she put down her own cup, her eyes alight. "Oh yes, Mr. Roarke!"

Once again they returned to the raised section of the bungalow's main room and stood in a row just at the top of the steps. The fog once again filled the open space between the shutter doors, and Roarke explained, "Mr. Blake has moved into a new house." The image that appeared the next moment showed a house whose architecture seemed to be a cross between Spanish stucco and medieval castle before shifting to the interior of a tastefully decorated living room. The trio walked forward into it, joining perhaps ten other persons at what could only be a small party.

"Seven years have passed since we saw Lisa ride her new bicycle," Roarke explained. "She is now twelve years old, and there have been some changes."

"Of course," Elizabeth said. A great deal could happen in seven years, but Elizabeth could hardly be prepared for what they saw.

The glad shouts of small children made them turn and watch a pair of identical little boys run past them. Leslie's mouth dropped open and her hand slowly rose to cover it; her eyes were enormous with shock. Twins, just as in her own family! She never saw the sympathetic glance Roarke spared her; she was too astounded.

Steven picked up one of the boys and propped him on his lap. "Ah, there're my boys!" he said cheerfully as the other child ran into the arms of a dark-haired woman who knelt beside him.

"There's Steve," said Elizabeth and started forward. "Steve…" Roarke had to restrain her again, and she stepped back with a soft gasp, belatedly remembering that no one could see them. "Who is she, Mr. Roarke?"

"Steven remarried six years ago," Roarke explained gently. "Her name is Helen; the twins are their children."

Elizabeth gave a soft, sheepish chuckle. "I guess I'm a bit jealous," she admitted, "but I'm glad, too. They're beautiful children." Roarke glanced at her with some surprise; Elizabeth watched with a bright smile. Leslie, still stunned by the presence of the twins, hadn't moved at all.

"Okay, boys, say goodbye to everybody," Helen said then. "It's naptime for you."

"Say goodbye," Steven added, and the little boys obligingly did so and then ran off down the hall. Their parents laughed.

"They're so well behaved," Helen said and linked her arm with Steven's. "Lisa should be so easy to deal with, hm?"

Elizabeth's smile faded. "What did she mean by that?" she asked Roarke. "Where _is_ Lisa?" The question finally brought Leslie out of her daze, and she registered for the first time the fact that Lisa was nowhere in sight.

"We will find her," Roarke said and gestured her ahead so he could drop back slightly and see to Leslie. "Are you all right?" he murmured for her ears only.

There was still a stunned look in her eyes. "It's just…the twins," she said, her voice breaking slightly. "The only difference is they're boys here, instead of girls."

"Do you want to return?" Roarke asked her.

Leslie shook her head vehemently. "No…no, I want to see what happens to Lisa."

He smiled. "Very well. Come along, then."

They followed Elizabeth down the same hall into which the twins had run and paused at the first door on the left. It was clearly the bedroom of a young girl, and its occupant lay stretched across the bed, crying softly. They stepped inside, Elizabeth looking anguished. "Why is she crying?"

Roarke smiled faintly with sympathy. "Have you forgotten how painful adolescence can be?" he asked gently. "How even a minor problem can become a major tragedy?"

Elizabeth stared at her daughter. "Mr. Roarke, she's grown so beautiful."

Helen came into the room then. "Lisa, what's wrong?" She sat down on the edge of the girl's bed. "Come on, come out and join the party. People are wondering about you."

"I don't care," Lisa said. "They're not my friends anyway."

"Of course they are!" Helen contradicted soothingly. "They miss you. The twins miss you too."

"No they don't!" Lisa retorted tearfully. "They have you and Daddy. They don't care about me, nobody cares!" Steven paused in the doorway, watching sadly; Elizabeth didn't see, her eyes only for her daughter.

"I'm your mother," Helen said. "I care about you."

"My mother's dead," Lisa choked out, stunning them all. Elizabeth turned a tortured look to Roarke; her eyes were already red with impending tears. Leslie began to feel her own eyes sting and had to squeeze them shut; she had begun to identify too closely with this fantasy, and even she knew it. But she couldn't seem to help herself.

"Lisa!" Steven rebuked, entering the room and kneeling by the end of the bed. Lisa lifted her head and stared at him. "Don't you think you're being unfair? Apologize to your mother."

Lisa looked faintly apologetic, but she didn't back down. "Sorry, Daddy, but…Helen isn't my mother." Steven cast Helen a helpless look; Helen's eyes widened a moment, then lowered in pain.

Then Lisa burst out, "I wish my real mother could have lived!" She leaped off the bed, breaking into sobs, and fled the room, ignoring Steven's and Helen's calls for her to come back.

"Lisa, wait!" Elizabeth cried, and started after the girl.

Roarke caught her arm and stopped her yet again. "Mrs. Blake, you must not try to interfere," he reminded her. "It will break the spell."

"But she needs me, and I can't help her!" Elizabeth wailed and started to rush out of the room—only to find herself back in the bungalow, about to plunge out onto the terrace. Leslie opened her eyes finally and blinked, half in surprise at the sudden change of scene, half to try to dispel the stinging that wouldn't go away. She was just in time to see Elizabeth turn from the door, glance around and then slowly come back inside, beginning to cry in agony over the child she wasn't allowed to reach. The sight of her shredded the last of Leslie's control, and the next second, Roarke found himself trying to comfort two weeping females. But he couldn't blame either one of them.

‡ ‡ ‡

Roarke sent Leslie up to her room so she could recuperate, but he had a hard time concentrating on the accounting he was trying to accomplish. He kept comparing Elizabeth Blake's fantasy with Shannon Hamilton's; and worse, he was growing more and more worried about the effect of Mrs. Blake's fantasy on Leslie. The similarities surprised even him; he had been faintly startled at sight of the twin boys, but on nothing like the level Leslie had.

She looked composed about an hour later when she came downstairs again and offered to help Roarke by going through the mail; he accepted, watching her closely for a few minutes. Shortly she noticed, and eyed him curiously. "What's the matter, Mr. Roarke?"

"I merely want to be sure you're all right," Roarke said.

"I'm okay," Leslie told him. "Honest."

Either she was hiding it very well, Roarke thought, or she was telling him the truth. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and said, "Very well." They worked together in silence for a while, interrupted only by the occasional ringing of the phone.

At suppertime Tattoo joined them, looking as if he'd had quite a trying day. "What's the word on Mr. Dobbs' fantasy, my friend?" Roarke asked.

Tattoo shot him a look that seemed crammed with numerous emotions all at once; among them was a definite dose of amusement. "I think he might not be so enthusiastic about it anymore," he said. "He created a really nice painting on the theater wall in Amberville this afternoon. Beautiful girl…with a couple of distinct birthmarks. One that looks like a star, and the other a heart. People were standing around watching him paint it, admiring it, complimenting him…the works." He forked in a bite of sweet potato. "But it looks as if at least a couple of guys think he painted their girlfriends. One of them even punched him out."

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other. "Is he okay?" Leslie asked.

"I guess so," Tattoo said. "I told him to go put some ice on it, and he went off to his bungalow to hide awhile. But I've got a feeling he's having a lot of second thoughts about his fantasy."

"You seem quite cavalier about it," Roarke remarked. "Have you made any attempt to track him down?"

"He's got two guys chasing him as it is," Tattoo said. "Why should I join the footrace? Mr. Dobbs knows where to find us if he needs us."

Roarke smiled a bit resignedly. "You know full well he would not be the first to rethink a long-cherished fantasy. But unless he specifically asks for help, he will have to work things out on his own."

"He'll have to anyway," observed Leslie. Nearly two years of residence on the island had taught her that much.

Roarke and Tattoo laughed. "That's for sure," Tattoo agreed, "but I'm not sure he's gonna survive, at this rate. So, what about Mrs. Blake's fantasy?"

Roarke filled him in on what had happened so far, and Tattoo nodded, casting a glance at Leslie a few times but saying nothing. Then he commented, "Sure sounds spooky, boss, all the parallels."

That thought reverberated through Leslie's mind as she and Roarke went back to Elizabeth Blake's bungalow shortly after the meal. Elizabeth had also just finished eating and, while she was solemn-faced, looked calm. There was a lurking sadness in her blue eyes that made Leslie's empathetic sense rear up again, and she thought of her own mother, realizing for perhaps the first time that Shannon had looked strained and pale the last few months of her life. _Was it because she knew the fire was happening soon? _Leslie thought, and pushed the thought away with a shudder.

Roarke glanced at a photograph of Steven Blake that sat on a small table between corners of well-upholstered sofas. "I am sorry your impulsive gesture caused the second window to close prematurely," he said.

"I'm sorry too," Elizabeth said, her voice flat, "but Lisa seemed so lonely and unhappy. I have to know what happened to her, Mr. Roarke."

"There is still the third window, Mrs. Blake," Roarke said, "but I remind you—it's your last chance to see your child."

Elizabeth sighed and gave him a sheepish look. "Don't worry, I won't do anything foolish this time."

Roarke smiled. "The expression of a mother's love is never foolish, Mrs. Blake. I am only concerned that you do nothing to cut short the last phase of your fantasy."

"I won't, Mr. Roarke," Elizabeth said, watching him rise. "I'm ready."

Roarke nodded. "Very well." He extended a hand to her and helped her to her feet, and once more they stood gazing at thick white fog swirling in the opening between the shutter doors. "Several years have passed for Lisa since you last saw her," he said. "Those years have brought about many changes."

The fog cleared to reveal a dirty, seedy urban street, frequented by provocatively dressed young women wearing too much makeup. Frowning, Elizabeth stepped forward into the scene, with Roarke and Leslie directly behind her. They stood on a sidewalk and glanced warily around. "What are we doing in a place like this?" asked Elizabeth.

That was when they saw a tall, slender girl with pale golden hair stop in front of a door and turn so that she faced their direction. She was clad in a maroon satin strapless dress with a too-short skirt and teetering five-inch heels. Elizabeth, to Leslie's amazement, seemed to recognize her and turned to Roarke in dismay. "Oh no. Is that Lisa? Mr. Roarke, what's happened to her?" Lisa looked nothing like the distraught twelve-year-old they'd seen earlier that afternoon; she had clearly changed a great deal.

"On her eighteenth birthday," said Roarke, "Lisa could face her loneliness no longer. She ran away from home—disappeared—to search for the love she needs."

"Love! On this terrible street?" Elizabeth exclaimed and turned to him. "Oh, Mr. Roarke, let me go to her. Let me help her."

Roarke said, "You're asking me to alter a fantasy, Mrs. Blake, to make you an exception to my rule."

"But don't you see?" Elizabeth insisted. "I can give her love. I can help her—I know I can. Please—it's the only chance I'll ever have to be her mother!"

Leslie touched Roarke's arm, and he glanced down at her, pausing at sight of her face. "Just this once, Mr. Roarke, please, won't you?" she pleaded hopefully.

Roarke sighed softly, smiled, then turned to Elizabeth. "Fate has cheated you of precious years of life. Perhaps we can bend the rules this one time." For some reason he cast one deliberate glance skyward. "But all I can give you is twenty-four hours."

"I'll make it enough," Elizabeth said quickly.

"Very well. For twenty-four hours you will be part of your daughter's future. You will be the same age you are now, except you will not be pregnant. And one more thing: it is imperative that you not reveal to her that you are her mother."

"I understand. I promise," Elizabeth told him. She turned away and watched as Lisa sauntered up to a sleazy-looking guy with curly blond hair, wearing sunglasses and a shirt open nearly to his navel, standing in a doorway puffing on a cigar. It was the last glimpse Leslie had of the scene, for Roarke grasped her arm and took two large steps back with her. Instantly they were surrounded by the main room of Elizabeth Blake's empty bungalow.

"I'm glad you gave her the chance, Mr. Roarke," Leslie said softly. "Thank you for doing that."

He didn't say anything in response, just smiled and slid an arm around her shoulders, squeezing her. He led the way out of the bungalow, and Leslie followed, filled with hope for Elizabeth and Lisa Blake.

Back at the main house, they discovered a rather frenetic Kermit Dobbs just slipping into the study through the French shutter doors while Tattoo, making out a report, paused in his work to watch in a bemused silence. "Are you all right, Mr. Dobbs?" Roarke asked.

Dobbs started violently, jumping a good six inches, then sagged almost to his knees and caught himself on the open door to stop his descent when he realized it was Roarke. He pulled himself up and shot Roarke one incredulous look—through two black eyes—before tugging both shutters closed. "Mr. Roarke, this isn't quite what I had in mind!" he said as he did so.

"Really?" said Roarke, somehow knowing what Dobbs was talking about (which shouldn't have surprised Leslie anymore, but did anyway). "From all I have heard, your painting is a tremendous artistic success, Mr. Dobbs! Are you saying you are dissatisfied with your fantasy?"

Dobbs blurted, "Oh no, no, Mr. Roarke. I did it—I painted my masterpiece! But right now I want to give you back this brush, say thank you, and get the first plane back to Kansas." He advanced on Roarke with the paintbrush he'd been given that morning.

But Roarke shook his head. "Oh, I'm sorry, I can't possibly accept the brush."

"Whaddaya mean you can't accept it?" Dobbs burst out, panicking. "You have to! My health depends upon it!"

"Boss, he's not kidding," said Tattoo.

Roarke glanced at him, then back at Dobbs, before going around the desk and opening the shutters. Dobbs collapsed into a chair and slouched in it as low as he could, apparently trying to avoid being seen. "Unfortunately," Roarke said, "it's a condition of this particular fantasy that the brush remain in the possession of the artist for a full 48 hours…along with all those other certain idiosyncrasies I mentioned."

"Yes, but I'm not really the artist!" Dobbs protested, leaping from the chair, returning behind the desk and pulling the shutters closed again. "And those 'idiosyncrasies' are gonna get me killed!" He slammed the doors and peered anxiously through the slats of the shutters, while Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie glanced at one another in amusement.

Suddenly Dobbs backed away from the shutters and lit so obviously that Leslie almost expected to see a cartoon lightbulb appear over his head. "Wait a minute. What if I give the brush back to the real artist?"

Roarke mulled it over, looked at Tattoo, who made a _hey, that might work_ expression, and turned back to Dobbs. "Yes, that would be satisfactory, yes," he said thoughtfully, "if you can convince Mr. Patrick O'Herlihy to accept the brush. However, you must realize that if you do, to him will also go the attention—and the credit—for painting your masterpiece!"

Dobbs was plainly past caring. "Believe me, he can have the attention," he said fervently. "Now where do I find this Patrick O'Herlihy?"

"Ah," said Roarke, once more reopening the shutters. As he did, Dobbs edged away till he was hidden behind the wall. "Just take the pathway that leads from the luau area—you know where that is—up into the hills, Mr. Dobbs. You will find him there."

Dobbs eyed Roarke for one long moment, nodded faintly, then took a deep breath and fled from the study, dashing away into the trees. Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie watched him go, then looked at one another and began to laugh in spite of themselves.


	11. Chapter 11

§ § § -- January 17-18, 1981

Leslie sat up in bed with a loud gasp and slapped a hand over her chest, where her heart pounded from residual fear. It had been a long time since she'd last had the nightmare, long enough in fact that she couldn't recall exactly when the last occurrence had been. But now, as then, she couldn't remember the dream. She knew only that she had been frightened and that it had had something to do with fire.

But it hadn't just been the usual nightmare; it had been the influence of Elizabeth Blake's fantasy and she knew it. The fact that Elizabeth was so heavily pregnant, that there were twins in her daughter's future, that she would die as Leslie's mother had—even that she was getting three chances to look into the future, just like Shannon had—was just too much for her. She began to cry, trying to muffle the sounds; but a few minutes later she heard the door open anyway and knew Roarke had come in.

He settled onto the side of the bed and hugged her, sitting in silence and patting her back till she had gotten over the worst of her tears and alarm. Then he tilted her face back and studied her with a faint frown for long enough to make her feel like a virus in a Petri dish, before finally murmuring, "I think this fantasy is proving to be too much for you."

As emotional as this experience had made her, the thought of detaching herself from it had never once crossed her mind. "No, please, Mr. Roarke," she exclaimed. "Don't cut me out of it now! I'll be okay, really—it's just that…"

"There are simply too many similarities between Mrs. Blake's fantasy and your mother's," Roarke said. "Granted, your mother had thirteen years with you before you lost her, whereas Mrs. Blake will never know her own child; but there are just too many other coincidences. I had my doubts about your resilience when I saw how badly you were shocked by the appearance of the twins. And now you've just awakened from a nightmare. I'm not sure it's advisable to let you continue to be a part of this."

"Please, Mr. Roarke," Leslie begged. "I'll control myself better next time, I swear it. I promise. Really. Just please, don't make me have to stay away…_please!"_

He regarded her very dubiously for a long moment, enough to make her clutch his arm and open her mouth to plead again. When she did, he held up a hand and finally smiled, though he still looked reluctant. "All right, Leslie, all right. I admit to you right here and now, I'm not convinced it's the best thing for you. It seems as if the talk we had last weekend about your tendency to internalize the plights of others has yet to completely sink in. But perhaps this is the only way you can learn not to let it affect you so."

"I know," Leslie mumbled, sighing deeply. "But you know how much like Mom's fantasy this one is. It's going to get to me in some way or another." She looked up and brushed aside the remnants of her tears. "But I want to see what happens to Lisa. I want to be sure it'll be a happy ending."

Roarke chuckled. "I suppose I can't argue with that. Very well, Leslie, you may be present when I bring back Mrs. Blake from her final glimpse of Lisa's future. Now, try to go back to sleep."

She squeezed his arm. "Thank you, Mr. Roarke. I'll do my very best not to let you down."

"That you haven't," he assured her. "But if you want to see anything, you'd better sleep. It will be late in the day before we see the lady again anyhow, so I plan to keep you busy, and thus distracted." He winked to show her he was teasing, and she grinned, watched him leave the room and settled back under the covers.

She waited till she heard his bedroom door close down the hall, then slipped back out of bed and went to her window, raising the sash far enough to let in the soft breeze and the night sounds. She paused in the window seat, kneeling on one knee, listening hard; but there didn't seem to be a night crier in the area. She wasn't sure if that was good or bad; plaintive though the bird's call was, it was probably her favorite island sound. But there were plenty of crickets _scree_ing their cheerful nocturnal song, and their chorus followed her back to bed and eventually lulled her to sleep again.

By morning she felt much better, and evidently it showed, for Roarke commented on it at breakfast. She just smiled; she had a feeling that Elizabeth Blake would do everything in her power to protect her daughter, for it was the one time she'd have the opportunity to do something for her. She concentrated on that optimism to get her through the day.

It was an interesting day, to be sure. Not that there were ever any uninteresting days on Fantasy Island, she realized once she thought about it, but this one somehow seemed to stand out a little. Perhaps it was the comic relief that seemed timed to keep her from dwelling on the Blake fantasy. After a visit from a vacationing Santa Claus—to whom Roarke, for some unknown reason, actually made a gift of a pretty young girl—Leslie, amazed that her guardian had shown such a lapse in judgment, sternly reminded him of the existence of Mrs. Claus, which struck him utterly speechless. As she marched upstairs with her textbook, she heard Tattoo laughing heartily behind her and managed to resist grinning to herself till she'd gotten into her bedroom. Never before had she caught Roarke so off-guard, and it was an oddly exhilarating feeling. Maybe it was because it just went to prove that even her seemingly omniscient guardian wasn't infallible, and as a result, that made him seem more approachable, more human.

She took Tattoo on a few routine errands during the afternoon; then, roughly four or so, Roarke decided it was time he got a good look at the painting Kermit Dobbs had produced during his weekend of being a great artist. The old theater building just within Amberville town limits, next door to the elementary-school grounds, was still surrounded by people gazing at the painting. Leslie regarded it with surprise; the painting, despite being of a nude young woman, was in good taste, with strategic parts carefully hidden away. And, just as Tattoo had described it, there were two curiously shaped birthmarks on the girl's lower back. All in all, it was well done and brightened up the building nicely.

Then she heard Roarke say, "Ah, Mr. O'Herlihy!" and focused on the object of this greeting. "I see you've interrupted your vacation, huh?"

"Aye, I have," O'Herlihy snapped, "and a timely thing it is too, Mr. Roarke. Now borrowin' me talent, that's one thing. But this—this—Dobbs person, signin' his name ta _my_ product—well, now, that's quite another!" Roarke eyed him sidewise and turned to see that Kermit Dobbs' name was indeed on the painting.

"But he did paint it," Tattoo spoke up.

"Did he really now, Tattoo?" O'Herlihy shot back. "The signin', Mr. Roarke, was not part o'the bargain!"

Roarke raised a hand. "Of course. Your agreement to lend your talent for a weekend, free of the stress of romance, can be terminated, if you so desire."

"Well, desire it I do," snapped O'Herlihy. "And now where do I find this Mr. Kermit Dobbs, who signs his name ta my genius, drinks my wine, and disappears inta the night like the thief he is?"

"If you'll follow me, I think I know where to find him. This way, please." Roarke led the way, with Tattoo, Leslie and O'Herlihy trailing along, the latter in a fine, tearing temper.

They found Kermit Dobbs standing with another guest, a gorgeous young blonde by the name of Deborah Dare, at the lagoon into which the island's big waterfall spilled. The two were just standing there staring into each other's eyes, so Roarke coughed deliberately to get their attention. "Excuse me, Miss Dare. Forgive the intrusion, Mr. Dobbs, but I think you'll be interested to know that Mr. O'Herlihy wishes to terminate his, uh, agreement with me?"

"In short," broke in O'Herlihy, "ye can be givin' me back the box that ye tried ta force upon me last night."

Dobbs picked up the box, which sat on a rock behind Deborah. Clutching it protectively in front of him, he protested, "I'm…I'm not sure I want to give it back just yet."

"Eh?" burst out O'Herlihy with a glare.

"There's…there's something I'd like to tell Miss Dare first," Dobbs said.

"Oh! Well, the devil take you _and_ yer Miss Dare! I'll be havin' me talent back right now!" O'Herlihy reached over and grabbed the box, yanking at it twice before Dobbs finally let it loose. "And safe from the hands of such a greedy amateur as yerself."

Just then another blonde stumbled to a halt nearby and cried out, "I bin lookin' all over fer you, darlin'!" in a syrupy southern accent. They all turned abruptly to see who it was; O'Herlihy darted away several steps.

"Oh no! Wait, don't be tellin' me. It was Texas, it was the country club…an' that was New Year's Eve!" he blurted.

"Oh, we haven't got time fer that now. Hud's joined forces with some football player, and they're both lookin' fer you." Roarke wore a look of impish amusement; Leslie stared in amazement, and Tattoo simply grinned.

"Wrong, darlin'!" Again everyone turned around to see two men standing there, undoubtedly the very two the southern blonde had just described. The voice belonged to a man who reminded Leslie of the colonel from Kentucky Fried Chicken.

His companion, a big burly guy, said, "We're through lookin', you Don Juan. We found ya!" He nudged the "colonel" and said, "Let's get him."

"Well," O'Herlihy exclaimed in a rush, "seems like old times are back again. Ta-ta." With those words, he took to his heels, and the two men raced after him in hot pursuit. The blonde started to follow, then stuttered to a halt and turned to them with a plaintive look on her face.

"Why is it that every time I git in the mood fer a li'l romance, ever'one decides to run ten laps around the island?" she wailed, before taking off after the men.

Roarke and Leslie both began to laugh; Tattoo grinned broadly, and Deborah giggled before turning to Dobbs and kissing him. Tattoo blinked with interest and glanced up at Roarke, then at Leslie, who stared wide-eyed. Roarke gently prodded her in the shoulder, and they turned and left the couple to their privacy, though Tattoo couldn't resist one last glance over his shoulder as they did.

‡ ‡ ‡

"Well," said Roarke, as the afternoon waned and they were nearing the main house, "do you think you're ready to see the end of Mrs. Blake's fantasy, Leslie?"

"I think so," she said, looking at him with a touch of apprehension. "I just hope it turns out okay."

"Mrs. Blake strikes me as a very resourceful woman," Roarke observed. "And what's more, you'd be amazed by the strength of a mother's love. Come, let's go to her bungalow, the time I was able to allot her is nearly up now."

"I'll go back and take any calls, boss," offered Tattoo, and Roarke accepted with thanks.

When Roarke and Leslie reached the Blake bungalow, they slipped inside to find a scary scene playing itself out between the opened shutters. A crowd of men, most dressed in three-piece suits and ties, was clustered around a small raised dais on which stood a terrified-looking Lisa Blake, dressed in skimpy clothing, with her eyes full of tears and her chin trembling. The sleazy-looking, cigar-smoking character Leslie remembered seeing the previous day stood beside Lisa, encouraging the crowd; as they drew closer to the doorway and sound grew audible, she realized he was actually auctioning the girl off to the highest bidder and winced with disgust. She saw Roarke scanning the crowd and looked around herself. Off to one side stood Elizabeth Blake, trying to hide an increasingly frantic and frustrated look; every several seconds she twisted her head toward the door as if expecting someone.

"Mr. Roarke, they can't see us, can they?" Leslie asked low.

"No, we are as Mrs. Blake was up till she insisted on helping her daughter—invisible and inaudible to these people. You need not whisper." Roarke looked amused, and Leslie managed to give him an acknowledging half-smile, but she wondered how he could be so calm when it looked as if the pimp was going to win and Elizabeth be unable to help Lisa after all.

All of a sudden the pimp yelled triumphantly, "Sold to Lucky Eddie!" With a smirk he planted his hands on Lisa's back and shoved the shrieking girl into the arms of a broadly grinning, balding businessman. The men around him began to cheer as Lisa squirmed to break free of Eddie's embrace.

Then an explosive bang echoed through the room, and three seconds later the police swarmed in and began making arrests left and right, including Eddie, as the suddenly panicky "customers" started trying to slip out without being noticed. The tall dark-haired man Leslie remembered as Steven Blake—now with some gray touching his temples—broke loose from the mob and spied Lisa standing behind the startled pimp. Fury crossed his face and he attacked the other man, swinging punches left and right. The pimp tried to defend himself, but Steven clearly knew what he was doing and shortly had him reduced to a bleeding pulp. While the police took care of him, Steven ran to Lisa, with Helen just behind him; Lisa threw herself into her father's arms, sobbing. "Baby, this never, never should have happened," Steven said fervently, hugging his daughter and stroking her hair. "I'll make it up to you. I love you."

Not far away Elizabeth Blake, in plain sight of the three of them as far as Leslie could tell, smiled through swelling tears. Lisa turned in Steven's arms, and when it became obvious she was searching for someone, the realization occurred to Leslie at the same time it did Elizabeth: Lisa's mother had become an unseen observer once more. Roarke gently nudged Leslie along towards Elizabeth as Lisa squinted over Helen's shoulder, blinking away tears.

Then Lisa looked up at Steven. "I had a friend I wanted you to meet, but she's gone." Lisa seemed a little bewildered, yet thoughtful too, behind her emotion. Steven and Helen looked quizzically at her, and she said shakily, "Whoever she was, I know this…if it hadn't been for her, I never would've…understood." Her voice tightened with tears on the final word.

"About what, baby?" Steven asked.

Lisa gazed up at him. "About love," she said in a tiny voice and began to cry again.

Leslie and Elizabeth both felt the sensation of a change in their surroundings at the same time, and Leslie looked around to see that somehow they were standing outside the scene one more time, in Elizabeth's bungalow, watching as Steven and Helen flanked Lisa on their way out of the room and the scene between the shutters faded forever into fog. Then the fog, too, disappeared, and Elizabeth, pregnant once again, turned at last to Roarke with a simple, heartfelt, whispered "Thank you."

§ § § -- January 19, 1981

They greeted Kermit Dobbs and Deborah Dare at the plane dock Monday morning with broad smiles. "Miss Dare, Mr. Dobbs, how happy you both look," Roarke commented.

"And beautiful," Tattoo added, then backtracked. "Uh, I mean, Miss Dare."

Deborah laughed. "Thank you, Tattoo. It's been a wonderful weekend, and now we're looking forward to a wonderful life together."

Dobbs grinned. "Mr. Roarke, just a point of interest. Whatever happened to Patrick and the others?"

"Mr. O'Herlihy booked passage on a ship that left rather unexpectedly last night," Roarke told him. "The other two gentlemen are still searching the hills, I believe…isn't that right, Tattoo?"

"That's right, boss," Tattoo agreed, grinning.

"Still running those ten laps around the island, I guess," said Leslie, earning a round of laughter from the adults.

"There's still one other thing I don't quite understand," Dobbs persisted. "When Patrick grabbed the box, all the others thought that he…you know…but—" His gaze slid to a blank-faced Deborah.

Roarke smiled. "Who can explain the mysteries of true love, Mr. Dobbs?" he said. "Indeed…who would really want to?"

Dobbs grinned. "I believe you're right, Mr. Roarke. Thank you." They all shook hands and said their goodbyes, and watched Kermit and Deborah stroll toward the docking ramp arm in arm.

"Boss," Tattoo said suddenly, and Roarke made a questioning noise, turning to him. "I don't get it."

"What?" Roarke prompted.

"What about the beauty mark on Miss Dare's, uh…" Tattoo hesitated, then finally came up with, "painting?"

Roarke smiled at him. "I happen to know that that mark was, for lack of a better expression, merely an ad-lib by Mr. O'Herlihy." Tattoo glanced at him oddly. "I assure you, he didn't know Miss Dare existed!"

"Well, you could have told Mr. Dobbs about it," Tattoo protested mildly. "He thought that she, uh…you know!"

Roarke shook his head. "It is better this way, my friend. Not knowing will help Mr. Dobbs remain a most attentive husband forever!" Tattoo nodded thoughtfully.

"Pretty clever," remarked Leslie with a grin, and Roarke tipped his head in her direction.

Elizabeth Blake arrived then, and Roarke assisted her out of the car. "Mr. Roarke, Tattoo, Leslie…goodbye," she said. "How can I ever thank you?"

Roarke, taking her hand, smiled. "On very rare occasions, Mrs. Blake, it is our pleasure to say thank you to a guest. Your example of courage, devotion and love has made this such an occasion. So thank you, Mrs. Blake…and now, I believe Leslie has a very special memento for you." He turned to his ward, who smiled shyly at Elizabeth and from her pocket extracted a photograph, handing it to Elizabeth.

"The future you've given your daughter," she said softly.

Elizabeth gazed at the photo of an adult Lisa, a mop-topped fellow with a friendly smile, and an adorable little boy. "Your daughter Lisa, her husband…and your grandson," said Roarke with a smile.

Elizabeth looked up then, tears shining in her eyes, and said, "Oh, Mr. Roarke…through them I'm going to live forever." Roarke nodded, and she breathed in a shaky but happy voice, "Has anyone ever been so lucky." She impulsively tipped forward and kissed Roarke's cheek, then Tattoo's, and finally Leslie's before adding gently to the girl, "I'll tell your mother how well you're doing when I see her. I promise."

Leslie blinked in sheer astonishment, and tears abruptly flooded her own eyes. "Thank you," she managed to whisper. Elizabeth smiled, turned at last and made her way to the dock, pausing once to wave at them. Roarke waved back, hesitating a moment, then glanced at Leslie and smiled just slightly, reaching across Tattoo and brushing away the one stray tear that slid slowly down her cheek.

§ § § -- April 6, 2006

Julie's eyes somehow got even bigger, and even Christian was stunned, hanging on their every word. When they finished, Leslie had to blink back tears again, and he wrapped his hand tightly around hers.

"Little wonder you were so affected emotionally," Christian said, his voice slow with amazement. "The parallels between Mrs. Blake and your mother are uncanny." He cleared his throat and sat up a little, releasing Leslie's hand to help Tobias climb into his lap. Susanna, noting her brother and sister had each appropriated a parent, wailed in protest, and Roarke urged her to come sit with him. Susanna, a smug look on her small face, trotted willingly over to her grandfather and settled happily in his lap, eyeing Karina and Tobias as much as if to say, _I got the best lap in this room!_ Her expression made them all laugh.

"So do you think all that stuff really happened to Lisa Blake, then?" Julie wondered.

"I used to think about that over the years," Leslie admitted. "That fantasy always stood out for me because it was so much like Mom's, and I remember trying to calculate when the scenes with Lisa would have taken place in real life. We had a birth announcement from Steven Blake with a little picture of Lisa as a newborn, thanking us again for giving Elizabeth the opportunity to be part of her daughter's life. I'd been hoping for a miracle, but…" She stopped and swallowed, and Christian slipped an arm around her and snuggled her in close to him, kissing her forehead through her bangs.

Roarke watched sympathetically and finished for her when she couldn't continue. "Included with Lisa's birth announcement was an obituary for Mrs. Blake," he said quietly. "Lisa was born on February 3, 1981; so Mrs. Blake's first vision showed Lisa on her fifth birthday in 1986. The second vision, when Lisa was twelve, occurred in 1993; and the last, when Lisa was eighteen, took place in 1999."

"For all we know, that picture Leslie gave Mrs. Blake at the plane dock, the one of Lisa with her husband and son, is being taken even as we speak," Christian remarked and smiled. "And no, I won't ask how you got a copy. No one ever knows anything with you, Mr. Roarke."

"Hey, uncle's gotta have some trade secrets, doesn't he?" Julie kidded. "Say, listen, we need a little comic relief after all that angst. Let's hear about a funny one."

"Hmm…" Roarke thought about it a moment, then grinned. "You may or may not have been wondering how I ever got so involved with Haruko's mermaid friend Akima's mother. It was Leslie's initial introduction to Nyah; she was here the first time Nyah tried to make trouble, but never had the chance to meet her then. On this occasion she did."

"And believe me, it was memorable...for some very funny reasons," added Leslie impishly, making them laugh. Christian grinned at her and she returned it, feeling her spirits rising. "Well, we should start at the beginning with this one."


	12. Chapter 12

§ § § -- October 31, 1980

When Leslie got in the door from school that Friday afternoon, she found Roarke on the phone, looking very concerned. He caught sight of her in the foyer and smiled a welcome at her before returning his attention to the call; curious, she came into the room and paused near the desk, listening in.

"Yes, yes, Mrs. O'Grady, I quite understand," Roarke said. "There is no need to apologize, and I extend my most heartfelt sympathies to you over the loss of your husband." He paused and listened again for a moment. "Oh no, no, there is no penalty whatsoever. We have available weekends beginning after the Christmas and New Year holidays, so you need only decide which is best for you and notify us once you have chosen a new date. …Yes, of course. Take all the time you need. Thank you for getting in touch with me, and once again, I am deeply sorry about your loss. Goodbye." He hung up and pulled his date book across the desk, flipping it open to November.

"What happened?" Leslie asked.

"One of our fantasizers has had to make a last-minute cancellation," Roarke told her, finding a pencil and erasing the name O'Grady for November first. "Mrs. Anita O'Grady of South Boston, Massachusetts, informed me that her husband was killed this morning—hit by a car as he was attempting to cross the street." Leslie winced and drew in a sharp breath of sympathetic pain. "Needless to say, her foremost priority now is to make funeral arrangements and attend to Mr. O'Grady's affairs."

"So I guess there'll be only one fantasy this weekend," Leslie said thoughtfully. "That's going to be different. Maybe it'll be nice and quiet."

Roarke raised an eyebrow at her. "You think so, hm? Surely by now you have learned how utterly unpredictable this business is, by its very nature." She gave him a sheepish little half-smile, and he chuckled. "Do you have homework?"

"I finished it at school," she said. "I had it in mind that I'd need all the time I could get in order to get ready for Myeko's party tonight, so I used my study-hall time to do it." She frowned doubtfully. "I don't know if my costume's really any good. I kind of slapped it together at the last minute."

"So when you told Tattoo last Monday morning that you didn't want to think about Halloween after my battle with Mephistopheles, you were serious," Roarke teased.

She rolled her eyes. "Even I didn't know how serious. I guess I'll just have to make the best of it. Is there anything you need me to do before I start getting ready?"

"No, everything is under control," Roarke replied. "Tattoo is handling some final details, but otherwise we are ready for the weekend."

She nodded and headed up the stairs to her room, and Roarke sat back in his chair, staring at the empty scheduling slot for that weekend and trying to battle the feeling that everything was going just a little _too_ smoothly.

§ § § -- November 1, 1980

On Saturday morning when Leslie came downstairs, she was quite surprised to find no trace of Roarke anywhere in the study. She called his name several times without result, then bit her lip anxiously when she heard Tattoo ring the bell in the tower. Nothing in the study looked out of place as far as she could see, but it was unthinkable that Roarke should be absent when it was time to go meet the charter plane. She ventured out onto the veranda, watching groups of native girls streaming by on their way to the dock, and leaned over the railing to peer into the clearing, hoping perhaps Roarke was there. But he wasn't.

Suddenly she heard Tattoo's gravelly French accent call out, "Boss! Boss! The plane!" At the sound she turned sharply and half ran to the end of the veranda to meet him; he whirled to watch her coming. "Have you seen the boss this morning?"

"No, he's not in the house at all," Leslie said, "and he's never late! You don't think something might have happened to him, do you?"

"Don't even think it," Tattoo said, scowling. The sound of an engine drew their attention and they turned to see the red station wagon approaching. "No help for it. Come on, Leslie, we better get to the plane dock."

They climbed into the vehicle and settled back as it headed for the Ring Road; Leslie leaned aside at hearing the drone of the charter plane and was just in time to see it bank and swing back away from the island. "Tattoo, look!" she exclaimed and pointed into the sky. He glanced at her to see what she meant, then followed the direction her finger indicated and stared in amazement at the disappearing plane.

"What on earth is happening here?" he demanded.

Unbeknownst to them, some thirty minutes earlier, Roarke had heard something in the air, a peculiar feminine sirenlike call with which he was already quite familiar, and knew he had no choice: he would have to answer it. Since the cancellation of the O'Grady fantasy, he had time enough to look into it. He had taken another car about ten miles down the Ring Road on the southern side of the island, then parked and made his way through a thick grove of palms and other tropical vegetation to a cliff a good forty or fifty feet in height. The sea was a little rough this morning; small breakers splattered over the boulders below, and tiny whitecaps tipped every wave.

Roarke paused on the cliff, and within seconds the sirenish call filled the air again. As he watched, a female head popped out of the blue-green water and a beautiful face smiled brightly up at him. "Hello, Roarke!"

"Hello, Nyah," Roarke replied with equal warmth.

"I called you from the deepest canyons of the glass-green sea," she observed in her musical, somewhat flowery speech, "yet you heard and came to me! You, too, are a remarkable creature, Roarke. And a handsome one, too!"

"Such flattery, Nyah!" Roarke remarked, a knowing smile appearing on his features. "Could it be that, uh…you want something from me?"

Nyah peered up at him with a look of sham innocence, then admitted, "Well, yes."

Roarke held up a hand. "Let me guess. A fantasy of your own, perhaps?"

"How did you know?" Nyah asked, but Roarke simply gave her that mysterious smile of his. "Well, it doesn't matter. But, since you did bring it up, I would like to learn what love is like." Roarke gave her a curious look, and she clarified, _"Human_ love."

"Well, I don't know if I should help you, Nyah," said Roarke.

"Why?" Nyah asked, her smile vanishing.

"Well, for one thing, you have been luring seamen into the dark waters of eternity for several hundred years with your siren song. It's an understatement to say that, with you, love can be dangerous…perhaps even to yourself."

"Your human love may threaten foolish mortals," Nyah retorted haughtily, "but I am Nyah—Most Royal Princess of the Kingdom of the Seven Seas. I have nothing to fear." She cast the hopeful, pleading look of an angelic little girl to him. "You will give me my fantasy, won't you? Please?"

Roarke smiled. "We'll see," he said. "We'll see. But first, to know human love, one must first be mortal." And with that, his genial expression switched to one of intense concentration; he raised one hand, palm down and fingers extended—and instantly Nyah began to lose her natural buoyancy, slipping beneath the waves and struggling to resurface. Still focusing solely on the mermaid, shutting out everything around him, Roarke drew back his arm and made a fist, twisting it clockwise. Nyah sank again, tail thrashing, and slowly Roarke relaxed his stance, but continued focusing on her. The tail disappeared beneath the waves, to be replaced moments later by two energetically kicking, very human feet, attached to two equally human legs.

Finally Nyah got above the water long enough to scream, "What have you done to me, Roarke?" Roarke smiled with amused satisfaction and turned to retrace his steps, ignoring the shrill "I hate you!" that followed him. Nyah made her way to a piece of driftwood that floated nearby and clung to it, panting in exhaustion.

This all happened while Tattoo and Leslie were both looking for Roarke and during their trip to the plane dock. Once there, Tattoo took over Roarke's role, calling for smiles and gesturing at the band to begin playing. The plane had finally landed mere moments before and was still taxiing around the lagoon to the dock while he was doing this; now, just as the side hatch popped open, Roarke stepped unexpectedly into view from the nearby trees, stunning Leslie and Tattoo.

"Boss, where were you?" Tattoo demanded. "You should have been here! The plane was approaching, and then suddenly, it turned around and went back to sea!"

"Yeah, we saw it from the car," Leslie added. "What happened?"

"Uh, yes," Roarke said, "I suspect the pilot saw a castaway drifting helplessly with the current, and stopped to pick her up." His glance shifted towards the plane.

"A castaway?" Tattoo echoed and followed Roarke's gaze to where a lovely woman wrapped in a red blanket was just stepping out of the plane. _"Her?"_

Leslie stared. "But Mr. Roarke—that's Princess Nyah, the mermaid!"

"What's she doing here?" Tattoo burst out indignantly. Neither he nor Leslie had forgotten the last time Nyah had made an appearance, nearly carrying off one of their guests; though Leslie hadn't actually met the mermaid, she'd seen her on the beach from afar while running a quick errand for Roarke during that weekend, so she knew what Nyah looked like as a result.

"She's a customer," Roarke answered.

"You mean she has a fantasy?" Tattoo exclaimed in disbelief.

"She has indeed! Her fantasy is to discover the secret of human love." Seeing their dubious looks, he said, "Well, she could hardly begin her search confined to the ocean." As he spoke, Nyah shied back from a woman trying to offer her a lei on her way down the dock, stumbling a little as she moved. Tattoo noticed.

"Boss, her tail is gone," he realized.

"It's only a temporary condition. She has forty-eight hours to fulfill her fantasy, and then she will go back to the sea…and to her tail." Nyah peered dubiously at a tray of drinks offered her, but this time accepted one.

"Forty-eight very long hours," Leslie predicted darkly. Roarke glanced at her and smiled, but left the issue where it stood while a fortyish fellow stepped out of the plane cabin and started down the dock.

"Mr. Tony Chilton," Roarke introduced him, "an airline pilot from Okmulgee, Oklahoma, and a happily married man with a young daughter…but something nags at him."

"And that's why he's here, right?" Tattoo said with a grin.

"Precisely. He was born during what many consider to be the last great romantic conflict, World War II. His fantasy is to fly one combat mission with a certain famous fighter group based in the New Zealand area. Mr. Chilton wants to be one of those flying aces, one of the heroes."

"Boss, that could be very dangerous, doing things like that," Tattoo protested, ever the worrier. "He could get killed."

Roarke nodded. "He could indeed, my friend—but there is a great deal more to this fantasy than meets the eye." His drink arrived and he raised it to their guests, giving his weekly welcome. Tony Chilton raised his drink in return; Nyah took a sip of hers, grimaced and threw the entire glass over her shoulder in disgust. Roarke hid his amusement behind his own glass, while Leslie loosed a startled giggle and Tattoo rolled his eyes.

‡ ‡ ‡

Tony Chilton sat in the study going through some old black-and-white photos; he looked up when Roarke came in with Leslie behind him. Chilton rose and they greeted each other, and Roarke introduced Leslie. "It's amazing," Chilton said, "all the famous fighter planes from World War II—the Lightning, the Mustang, the Corsair, the Zero. It's quite a collection you have."

"Yours is a very difficult fantasy, Mr. Chilton," Roarke said. "My preparations had to be meticulous, and Tattoo's research was very precise."

"I still can't believe it's gonna happen," Chilton said, placing the pictures on the low round wooden table behind him and turning back to Roarke with an eager expression. "How soon can we start?"

Roarke started to reply, but was interrupted by the sound of a door opening behind him. Both he and Leslie turned to look. Two native girls exited the time-travel room, and Tattoo came out behind them, pulling the door shut. "All set, boss," he said.

Roarke nodded and turned to Chilton. "If you wish, your fantasy begins now—but first, I must remind you that it is exceedingly dangerous."

"That's understood," Chilton agreed, "but there is one thing. It _will_ be the 53rd Fighter Group, before March 23rd, 1944?"

"Exactly as you specified, Mr. Chilton," Roarke assured him.

"That's great!" Chilton turned to pick up the photos again, and Roarke brought Leslie over to the door of the room from which Tattoo had just emerged. Too curious to resist, Leslie said softly, "Mr. Roarke, is that a special day, or what?"

He smiled at her. "In war, all days are special, my child. But in Mr. Chilton's case, the date has a special meaning." She nodded, no more enlightened than she had been before, but knowing from past experience that she wouldn't get any more details, at least for now.

"Come on," Tattoo said. "You can ask questions later on, maybe, but why don't you come with me."

"Let her be, my friend," Roarke said. "I'll be taking her with me to check on our other guest shortly. Wait at my desk, Leslie, and if any calls come in, please take them for me." She nodded and retreated, while Tattoo headed out the door, closing it behind him. Roarke turned and gestured to their waiting guest. "Mr. Chilton?"

Leslie watched Tony Chilton cross the room to the door that Roarke opened, and the two men stepped inside, leaving the door open so that she heard what transpired. "What's all this?" Chilton asked from within the room, which had been festooned with military trappings. Netting decorated the walls; a large framed photo of a World-War-II-era fighter plane hung on one wall; on the back wall was a flag bearing the logo of the 53rd Fighter Group. Two clothing boxes rested on a chair.

"Elements, Mr. Chilton," Roarke said. "Elements of your fantasy."

"What do I do now?" Chilton asked uncertainly.

"Change into the clothes you'll find in those boxes, and then, when you are ready, sit down on the chair and wait." Roarke started for the door.

"Wait!" Chilton blurted, stopping him. "Is that it?"

Roarke smiled. "The journey of a thousand miles, Mr. Chilton—or in this case, more than thirty years—begins with a single step. That," he said, pointing at the boxes, "is your first step." He paused and regarded Chilton with a slightly concerned look. "I sincerely hope your fantasy lives up to your fullest expectations. Will you excuse me?" So saying, he stepped out of the room and pulled the door shut behind him.

Leslie watched him silently as he came back into the study; after a moment he halted to look at her curiously. "Well?"

"Well what?" she asked.

A smile tried to quirk into life on Roarke's features. "Aren't you going to ask what's going on in there?"

Leslie lowered her chin and eyed him reprovingly. "Why bother, when I know you won't tell me anyway?" she retorted, evoking a laugh from him.

"Perhaps later, child," he said and extended a hand toward her. "Right now, I believe it's time to see if Princess Nyah will grant us an audience."

When they reached the bungalow where Nyah had been dropped off, they found her still clad in the red blanket, clumsily trying to get used to her new legs. Roarke started down the four steps into the bungalow's main room, but paused when Nyah glared at him. "I hate these awkward spindles you call legs!" she complained petulantly. "They bend strangely. And when I am angry and do this—" She stamped her right foot and moaned in pain. "They hurt!"

"Then don't do that anymore," said Roarke logically. Leslie lowered her head to hide the grin that insisted on spreading across her face.

Nyah scowled and clutched the blanket tighter. "Well, I must do _some_thing, Roarke. I am furious with you." She stopped teetering around the room on her new legs, glared at him and demanded, "Why did you not tell me that you would take away my beautiful tail?"

"Well, you demanded your fantasy at once!" Roarke pointed out, all innocent charm. "I could hardly disobey a royal command, could I?"

Nyah made a show of considering this for a moment, then conceded, "This is true. I am a princess, after all." She leaned over to pluck something out of a bowl on the coffee table, and Roarke took the chance to wink at Leslie, who grinned hugely and then hastily erased it when the mermaid looked up again and addressed Roarke with, "I forgive you for starting out my fantasy on two wrong feet."

"Thank you," said Roarke, carefully concealing his own amusement.

Nyah lifted a banana she'd extracted from the bowl of fruit, peered at it with a suspicious squint, then took a bite—skin and all. Roarke's eyebrows rocketed north while Leslie clapped a hand over her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut in revulsion. Nyah, unheeding, chewed thoughtfully for a long moment, swallowed, then remarked, "This is not as good as seaweed." Roarke smiled apologetically, and Leslie's hand drifted from her mouth to her forehead.

The mermaid, still clutching her banana, sank into a chair. "Now," she ordered, "bring me some love at once. I am beginning to get bored."

Roarke also took a seat, and Leslie stood behind his chair, as though using her guardian as a shield against Nyah. "Oh," Roarke said, "I am afraid love is not a dish that can be so easily delivered by room service…no, no. Love is an elusive, precious link between fortunate beings—a link which may join a man to a woman, a mother to her child, a friend to a friend—even a boy to his dog."

"Roarke, my fantasy was to know love, real, important love." Nyah took another bite of her still-unpeeled banana. "Now, how do I find it?"

"As all mortals must, by searching for it. And when you have found it, you'll know."

"Very well, I shall search for it. Now, where do I start?"

Roarke arose. "Well, I think perhaps someplace familiar to you, like…the swimming pool, might be a good start. I saw several eligible young men there a few moments ago."

Nyah also stood up and pointed her nose into the air. "I believe I will start…" she began, hesitated, then frowned a bit while Roarke and Leslie glanced at each other. Nyah, apparently unable to improve on Roarke's suggestion, finally said, "At the pool."

"Wise decision," Roarke said approvingly, and with that he started for the door. Leslie promptly fell in behind him; she had heard enough about Nyah to know that the mermaid had a hair-trigger temper, and had no wish to be left alone around her. Roarke let her out the door ahead of him before casting Nyah one last quick glance and all but rolling his eyes on his way out.

"You seemed in a hurry to leave," he remarked to Leslie.

"Well, I was. You told me and Tattoo about her. I don't want to be around in case she gets mad for some reason, especially if there isn't anybody else in the area she could use as a target."

Laughing softly, Roarke admitted, "Well, perhaps I can't blame you for that. I do think it wise that you and I go on to the pool, just in case Nyah needs help when she arrives there."

"You mean in case she gets in trouble," Leslie translated. Roarke simply gave her a wry look and started off in that direction.

But about halfway there, Roarke was waylaid by a vacationer who wanted to know if the famous Saturday-night luau was being held that weekend, and then at the pool itself, someone else stopped him to ask a whole raft of questions, some of them with painfully obvious answers. Patiently Roarke answered each and every one. Leslie was used to this and paid little attention; her attention wandered within moments and she scanned the pool in case any of her friends might be there. They had planned to try to meet here sometime that afternoon and rehash Myeko's Halloween party of the night before, although Leslie wasn't looking forward to that overmuch, due to the spectacular failure of her costume. She scanned the poolside concrete, half hoping she wouldn't see her friends there—and then she saw something that made her totally forget the party, her costume and everything else. Her eyes and mouth flew wide open simultaneously, and she reached blindly behind her and grabbed Roarke's arm. "Mr. Roarke…look!" she choked out.

Roarke glanced in the direction in which she was pointing, then sharply again as the image registered. It was Nyah, strolling along the poolside, as naked as any newborn baby! She had quite literally nothing on; only her long, long hair trailed behind her, and she made no attempt to use it to cover anything. A native serving girl turned to deliver a drink to someone and gaped in shock; the glass tumbled off the tray and crashed to the ground. Men gawked and pointed; one caught sight of her and promptly choked on his drink. Nyah, utterly ignorant of all this, paused at the lip of the pool and raised her arms, preparatory to diving in.

Roarke seized a beach blanket from a stack near the bar and dashed up behind her, throwing the blanket around her and towing the bewildered mermaid away. Leslie had never seen him so embarrassed, and bit her lip as he made hasty excuses. "Excuse us, there's been a slight mistake. She's a health-club member and…obviously, she's had too much sun. I'm terribly sorry. Please have a drink on me, won't you?—no, two! I'm terribly sorry…I apologize." He retreated as hurriedly as his shredded dignity would allow, glaring at Nyah as he dragged her along; Leslie fled in their wake, hoping to avoid any questions.

Near a fountain at a safe distance from the pool, Roarke yanked Nyah around to face him, but she spoke before he could. "Well, you told me to look for love at the pool!" she said, annoyed.

"You are on dry land now," Roarke pointed out in a rage as royal as any Nyah might claim, "and we humans observe certain conventions—clothing, for instance!"

"That's silly," Nyah sneered.

"Nonetheless, while you are on Fantasy Island, you will observe the general rules of human conduct. You will wear clothing! Is that clear?" Roarke snapped.

"Yes!" shouted Nyah.

"All right," Roarke returned, exasperated.

Nyah glowered. "I have never heard of anything so stupid in my entire eternal life," she griped. "I'm afraid this human love is going to be dull, dull, dull!" Roarke stared at her, tried to think of something to say, and finally gave up, at the end of his rope.

An idea occurred to Leslie then and she spoke up a little timidly. "There should be some bathing suits in the bungalow," she offered, risking glances at Roarke and then Nyah.

"Well enough," said Roarke shortly. "Come along, Nyah, and we'll see which of them will fit you." Again he grabbed her arm and pulled her along, with Leslie trailing faithfully behind; she was beginning to feel like a dog without the leash.


	13. Chapter 13

§ § § -- November 1, 1980

At the bungalow, Roarke spent the better part of an hour explaining to Nyah the different types of clothing and their respective purposes. At one point, while he was describing pajamas, she gave him an incredulous look. "Great Neptune, you humans even wear clothing when you sleep?"

"Well, not all of them do," Leslie said before she thought.

Roarke gave her a very dirty look. "Leslie Susan," he said, exasperated this time with her. She turned bright red and compressed her lips, but Nyah peered at her with bright-eyed interest.

"Is this true?" she asked.

Leslie saw her guardian's heavy frown and sighed. "Well, come on, Mr. Roarke," she protested, "it's not as if it isn't common knowledge that not everyone wears pajamas."

"And do _you_ wear them?" Nyah asked her, catching Roarke's attention and making him fight a sudden smile.

Leslie turned even redder. "Of _course_ I wear them," she said, scandalized.

Nyah then turned to Roarke and put the same question to him, which evoked a sudden grin from Leslie now that the tables had been turned. Roarke narrowed his eyes at the mermaid and said with unassailable finality, "Moving on…we have the swimsuit, which you are to wear in this instance." Leslie giggled, and he directed one long, quelling look at her before picking up a one-piece suit and handing it to Nyah for inspection.

It took eight tries before they found a suit that Nyah liked and that would fit her; it was a strapless two-piece bikini in red, blue and green stripes. "Now may I go to the pool?" the mermaid demanded, and Roarke agreed tranquilly.

Nyah seemed to be assessing her new outfit as they walked, and when they reached the pool she immediately began garnering admiring looks from many of the men clustered there. Nyah noticed and turned to Roarke. "There, do these tiny bits of cloth make me look mortal enough to walk around without causing a fuss?"

"Yes," Roarke said with a decisive nod. "Yes, I am quite sure that anyone who looks at you will say, 'There goes a real…human being.' " He cleared his throat slightly. "Yes…"

"Good," said Nyah with satisfaction. "Now I can start searching for someone to have love with." Leslie blinked at her terminology and Roarke shot a glance heavenward, but they made no comment on it till Nyah added, "If you see him before I do, will you point him out to me?"

"You mean a guy?" Leslie asked foolishly.

Nyah gave her an impatient look. "Yes, of course, a…a 'guy', as you say!" Leslie reddened yet again and resolved to herself to keep quiet from there on.

Roarke chuckled. "Oh, I can't decide whom you'll love, Nyah," he said. "When you meet the right person, you'll feel it in here." He tapped his own chest about where his heart was located, while Nyah peered at him curiously, her face a study in bewilderment.

"You say that I must search for love," she began, "and that I will feel it in here?" Roarke nodded as she tapped her chest in imitation of him.

"That's right," he said.

Nyah sighed deeply. "I still don't understand. I'm so confused." Clinging to Roarke's arm as they strolled the perimeter of the pool, she let her gaze track across the assorted vacationers who sunned themselves, swam or sat at tables with drinks; then her eye lit on a blond man standing next to the pool, talking with a blonde woman in a blue swimsuit and a large sun hat. "Roarke, look—a beautiful golden-haired mortal!" she exclaimed and grinned conspiratorially at him. "I think I will love him." She released him and made for the fellow in question with a purposeful stride, much smoother now that she seemed to have gotten the hang of using her legs. Roarke watched her with amusement, glanced at Leslie when she snickered, and grinned at her, guiding her over to the bar to check with the bartender for a moment or two.

The affable young Polynesian man behind the bar nodded at them. "Hello, Mr. Roarke, Miss Leslie," he said. "Can I help you?"

"Hello, Rick, how are you doing for supplies?" Roarke asked.

"Just fine, thanks. I think I'll get through the afternoon without any trouble. It's crowded today, but I ordered extras of everything so I wouldn't have to break service to get more."

"Excellent," said Roarke with a smile. "You've had no trouble?"

"No problems. Pretty peaceful overall," said Rick with a shrug.

Just then they heard Nyah's voice order sharply, "Be_gone!"_ and twisted their heads around just in time to see the blue-suited blonde land with a large, graceless splash in the pool and Nyah in a stance that plainly showed she had been responsible for the woman's being there. _So much for what Rick said,_ thought Leslie with a tiny sigh.

"Excuse me," Roarke said curtly and strode away toward the pool while the blond man Nyah had been admiring and a friend of his jumped into the pool after the blonde. Nyah watched, mildly perplexed, with a finger against her chin.

As Roarke came up beside her, with Leslie a careful three paces behind—for she could see his temper simmering—the mermaid remarked, "I don't understand his concern. She's quite an ordinary woman."

Roarke's patience ran out again. "May I remind you that I have provided your fantasy and will cancel it unless you control yourself! Do you understand?" Nyah continued to watch the young man lift the blonde out of the water and bend solicitously over her; her expression was one of contemplation and she seemed not to have heard Roarke, which made his temper get the better of him. Leslie hopped back one or two startled steps when he seized Nyah's arm and whipped her around to face him, demanding, "Answer me!"

Nyah gaped up at him in wounded shock. "Yes!"

Roarke nodded once, let go and stalked away, Leslie scuttling after him but still keeping several paces back. He rarely got really angry, and it scared her when he did, even more so than Michael Hamilton's rages had done, precisely because it happened so seldom. She heard Nyah yell from behind, "It's not fair!" sounding like a frustrated ten-year-old. "I need your help to find love! Roarke..._Roarke!!"_ Leslie glanced back in time to see Nyah stomp her foot on the ground and shriek in pain, hopping on her good foot. She broke her gaze before Nyah could focus her rage on her, and discovered Roarke had left already.

In fact, he had nearly made it to the waiting car before he noticed that Leslie still lagged a good ten feet behind him. "Hurry, Leslie," he urged, "I need to check on Mr. Chilton."

"Are you still mad?" she hedged, stopping where she was.

Roarke laughed, as if he'd never been upset at all. "Silly child, you know full well it's Nyah I'm angry with, not you! That mermaid is truly a trial, but her antics aren't your fault. Come along." Irrationally relieved, Leslie smiled and caught up with him at last.

‡ ‡ ‡

Roarke moved silently through the doorway and sat down on a bench beside the steps of the military mess hall; no one was out there except Tony Chilton, who sat on one step puffing at a cigar, staring blankly into the distance. Roarke smiled and remarked, "It appears to be a fine Havana, Mr. Chilton."

Tony started and then blurted, "Mr. Roarke! What're you doing here?"

"Well, I wanted to make certain your real fantasy was progressing satisfactorily," Roarke said. Secretly he hoped so; he was having more than enough trouble with Nyah.

Tony looked slightly downcast. "You knew all along, I guess."

Roarke smiled again. "It was very simple to determine that two months after your birth, your father, Mr. David Chilton, was reported killed in action, as a squadron leader of the 53rd Naval Fighter Group." He regarded the pensive Tony. "Have you met him yet?"

Tony lifted the cigar and grinned wistfully. "Gave me this."

Roarke's smile widened a little. "In honor of his new son—you."

"Yes!" Tony exclaimed and beamed.

Roarke regarded him solemnly. "Yours is an extremely rare emotional experience, Mr. Chilton."

Tony stared at the ground. "It's really difficult to describe the feelings. To be able to talk to my own father…he's so young! To actually see him alive…"

Roarke's gaze sharpened. "Alive only because it's your fantasy, Mr. Chilton."

Tony sat up straight, a mien of desperate insistence about him. "But he _is_ alive! There's gotta be something—"

"I must remind you," Roarke interrupted, "that fate cannot be altered, nor history rewritten. No matter how desperately we might wish it so, we cannot change what happened on March 23, 1944."

Tony stared at him and said with quiet conviction, "Well, I'm sure as hell gonna try."

Roarke smiled faintly. "I'm sure you will, Mr. Chilton."

Tony sighed to himself and stubbed out the cigar on the step beside him, and when he turned back, Roarke had vanished into thin air. He glanced around and slowly settled back onto his seat on the steps, a little unnerved.

Roarke saw him, smiled a little and retreated through the time-travel room into the study, closing the door. Leslie was sorting out bills and other items from fantasy-request letters and by now had a stack of the latter about a foot high; she was dropping the other things atop his date book. "You'll certainly have a busy afternoon, won't you?" he observed indulgently. He knew how much Leslie loved reading the letters.

She looked up and grinned. "Keeps me off the street," she joked.

Roarke laughed. "You're a big help to me with that," he said with appreciation, settling behind the desk. "I'd really better try to clear away some of the paperwork and accounting here before I do anything else."

"What about Nyah?" Leslie wanted to know. "She's already gotten into so much trouble and it's only early afternoon. She needs a keeper, Mr. Roarke."

"Unfortunately, I'm afraid you're right, but I simply don't have the time to be that keeper. I've given her all the advice I can in regard to her fantasy, and she'll have to learn the rest on her own."

"How do you teach a concept like love?" Leslie wondered.

"To tell you the truth, it's quite nearly impossible. It's an idea that must be taught through demonstration, rather than classroom-style lessons. It is said," Roarke noted, leaning back in his chair for a moment, "that mothers are the first and biggest influence in a baby's life. The mother will imbue her newborn with her own capacity to love. Give your baby attention and affection—above and beyond the usual care—do it with love, engage yourself with the child, and the child will invariably respond in kind. Do it grudgingly, with only the minimal attention required, ignore the child otherwise, and you will have an individual whose ability to love is sharply reduced—perhaps even eradicated entirely."

Leslie stared at him, thinking first of herself, then of her parents. Then she frowned. "I don't really know anything about my paternal grandparents," she said slowly. "I mean, I never knew them, they died before I was born. But now it makes me wonder what they did when my…when Michael Hamilton was a baby. If maybe his mother didn't show that kind of love when she was taking care of him."

Roarke considered her words; he recalled her fervent, "official" disowning of her father just a few months before, and was faintly surprised that she was even considering the possible circumstances of Michael's upbringing. After a few seconds he asked, "Do you think that may explain his treatment of you and your sisters?"

"I don't know," said Leslie, even more slowly; he could see growing reluctance in her eyes. Leslie herself couldn't stand the idea that she might be giving Michael Hamilton the benefit of any doubt, and scowled so fiercely that her guardian laughed. The sound seemed to jolt her brain into extra action, and she grumbled, "It might, but then how do you explain about Mom? When we were little, we always saw how he loved Mom. He showed it…maybe he even flaunted it, as if he was telling us she deserved it and we didn't. He hugged and kissed her all the time, smiled at her…he used to bring her little presents after work sometimes, before we moved to California. And then, after that, I remember he started showing it less and less, over time. I don't know…maybe that was why he eventually tried to kill her along with us."

When she trailed off and went silent, Roarke said gently, "There are mysteries surrounding your parents that you may never be able to solve, Leslie. I realize these questions will come up from time to time, but I assure you, you'll have far more peace if you can accept that the only point of view you will ever know completely is your own. It's not always possible to discern the motives of others, and in this case, you'll simply have to content yourself with possible explanations. There are too many missing pieces of the puzzle."

"Well," said Leslie fiercely, "I know one thing, I'm never going to treat any kids I have the way Michael treated me and Kristy and Kelly. _My_ kids are gonna know that their mother loves them—and their father better love them too, or else I'll throw him out of the family and never let him see them again. Mom should've done that to Michael." She looked up, a little startled by that last thought, which had come out unexpectedly. "Why didn't she, Mr. Roarke? Especially if she knew what was going to happen…she could've changed it, couldn't she?"

"No, child, she couldn't," Roarke explained, laying a hand over hers on the desk. "I realize that seems to you the logical solution; but you and your sisters were Hamiltons. Even had your parents divorced and your mother taken you away, perhaps even back to Connecticut, she would have faced the same outcome, because you three girls would still have been affected by the family curse."

He watched Leslie gradually deflate as she absorbed this revelation, and squeezed her hand. "In any case," he went on after a moment, "I'm sure your mother had her reasons for staying with Michael. Perhaps she still loved the man, after all was said and done. We will never know what she was thinking, and you'll have to accept that. Perhaps, in the wake of what she saw when she came here during her pregnancy with you, she felt that the solution she came up with was the best possible one, and knew that she must remain with Michael in order to achieve that, even though it meant the loss of your sisters."

"Maybe," Leslie said softly, then sighed heavily. "But…like you said, we'll never know." She straightened in her seat and reached for the last batch of unchecked mail. "Maybe I'd better get to work on these."

Roarke smiled and let the matter drop, understanding that this was her way of trying to lay to rest an indecipherable mystery. He gathered the mail she had left atop his date book and began to open it while she divided her stack of fantasy-request letters in two and began sorting the envelopes in her hands.

Tattoo came in just as she was going through the last few and plopped another rubber-banded stack of mail on the corner of the desk. She looked up in disbelief, and he shrugged amiably. "Sorry."

"I just finished all this mail!" she protested.

"I thought you liked looking at the new fantasy letters," Tattoo said in surprise.

"I do, but look at all this…I won't finish this by tonight." She slapped another bill onto Roarke's date book, making him flinch back a little and cast her a glance that she never saw.

"So you can do these tomorrow," Tattoo said dismissively. "Boss, I know you've got stuff to do, but I'm free. Want me to keep an eye on Nyah for you?"

"I'd appreciate that very much, my friend," Roarke said with a grateful smile. "Many thanks. If perchance she keeps you out past the evening meal, I'll have Mana'olana hold a plate for you."

"Don't worry about it, boss, I can just eat at the hotel," said Tattoo. "I was gonna do that anyway—I think Jean-Claude needs to be checked up on." Roarke and Leslie laughed, and Tattoo grinned, tossed them a wave and left the house.

After that, the afternoon was quiet; Roarke paid bills and turned to accounting, and Leslie began slicing envelopes across their tops with a letter opener and reading the contents, losing herself in them as usual. Nothing fascinated her as much as this, except the actual granting of the fantasies. The afternoon flew by under their respective pursuits, and they were both surprised when Mana'olana came in to announce that supper was ready. Leslie arose with some reluctance and followed Roarke out to the veranda, but once in her chair discovered she was ravenous and ate heartily enough to satisfy the cook for once.

Tattoo didn't join them, and Roarke assumed he had eaten at the hotel restaurant as he'd planned. But more than three hours later, he heard a commotion on the porch and wondered what was happening. He had just sent Leslie off to bed for the night and hoped she would remain out of sight.

A moment later the inner-foyer door burst open and Tattoo came in, with an iron grip on Nyah's wrist. Nyah looked surprisingly demure; she was clad in a pretty blue dress trimmed with narrow dark stripes against broad cream-colored ones, and her long hair had been twisted into an elaborate ponytail that fell over one shoulder. Her expression was the one mar in the picture; she had a thunderous look about her, mixed with some pain from the way Tattoo was vise-gripping her.

"Come on, get in here," Tattoo ordered, sounding thoroughly disgusted. "Hi, boss. Have I got a story for you."

Roarke repressed a sigh and tried to brace himself. "What happened?"

"I went over to the bar after I had dinner at the hotel," Tattoo began. "Got a letter from my cousin Hugo today, and thought I'd take the time to read it in privacy. It was nice and quiet for a while, but then I heard somebody hit somebody else, and I looked around and three men were at the bar punching each other out. One of them missed his target and hit an innocent bystander instead, and that guy got into the fight, and so on…you know how that kind of stuff is…till most of the people there were involved in it and even the bartender went down." He shot Nyah a fulminating look that she returned in kind. "All this time she was just standing there, drinking a glass of water and looking at them, and not doing anything to try to stop them. So I had to go out and call the police, and it took them ten minutes to get there. And during that time, more people came in and got involved with the fight, and I couldn't do anything except stand beside the door and hope nobody saw me. And when the cops got there, they started fighting over Nyah too! Finally I had to call the fire department to have everybody hosed down."

Unnoticed by anyone in the study, Leslie, still wide awake and very curious, had crept out of her room and was now sitting at the top of the steps listening avidly. She heard Roarke say, "You did very well under the circumstances, my friend. Please take charge of the cleanup operations, will you?"

"Okay, boss, but keep her away," Tattoo advised, shooting Nyah one last black look. "She's bad news!" And with that parting shot, he left the house; Leslie watched him cross the room and exit.

When he was gone, Roarke drew in a deep breath and turned to Nyah, who stood near the desk sulking. "I have repeatedly warned you to conduct yourself properly," he said sharply, "but apparently you didn't take me seriously, did you?"

"I did too!" Nyah burst out. "I was trying very hard to learn about love. And these unpredictable mortals started bashing each other about, merely because I looked at them." Roarke's eyebrows shot up, and he looked away with disgust, knowing full well what that really meant. Nyah mused, "My eyes _are_ very beautiful. Perhaps I'm just too lovely for men to stand it." To which Leslie couldn't help thinking, _And you're just too conceited for_ us _to stand it!_

Roarke eyed Nyah narrowly. "We are both aware of what your eyes can do to mortal men, aren't we? Not to mention your other…charms." He cleared his throat slightly and looked away again.

Nyah focused on him with wonder in her face. "Are you pleased with the way I look, Roarke?" He shot her another look, but she missed its implication altogether and smiled brightly at him. "That makes me very happy."

Once more Roarke's temper snapped. "And your actions make me decidedly _un_happy," he barked at her. "You have acted without consideration for others, and I will have no _more_ of it, do you hear me!" He punctuated the italicized word with a fist slammed on the desk, glaring furiously at Nyah.

Goaded, Nyah lost her temper as well. "Well, I will not be lectured to by commoners, Roarke," she growled at him.

On the steps, still unseen, Leslie covered her mouth with both hands, shocked. She had never before seen her guardian so angry and wondered just how far Nyah meant to push him. Roarke, who had turned away from her in an attempt to regain some composure, whipped back around, his eyes wide; then he checked himself and smiled fleetingly, but in a very dangerous way. "My dear Princess Pain-in-the-Neck," he said, "I shall now show my love for a naughty little girl by spanking her where she has been needing it for at least a thousand years!" He began to advance on her, and she retreated correspondingly, though rage glinted out of her eyes as well.

"Stand back!" Nyah yelled. "I will not let you touch the royal person."

"Oh, I promise that the part I touch is not all that royal," Roarke retorted, and Leslie canted forward on the top step, quaking with desperately suppressed laughter.

Nyah spread out her arms and tried to summon one aquatic power after another. "Rise up, Father Neptune, and drown this upstart in your angry waves! Drench him in your icy waters!" There was no response, and Roarke advanced on her again, backing her into a corner as she continued trying to invoke all sorts of entities with increasing desperation but no result. "Giant squid…attack! Shark!?...Where _is_ everything??"

Roarke wore a grim smile. "My apologies, Your Spoiled Highness!" he said, grabbed her arm and deftly turned her over his lap onto Leslie's chair, where he gave her a short but smart spanking. Nyah shrieked and squirmed, but Roarke didn't let her loose till he was ready. Once he'd set her back on her feet, stunned at her treatment and coasting rapidly towards tears, Roarke made a show of pulling his sleeves back into place, while Leslie stared wide-eyed, huge delighted grin half-hidden behind her hands. "I regret that the punishment was necessary," Roarke said with enormous satisfaction, "and I assure you it did not hurt me as much as it did you."

Only then did he really focus on her and see the mortified tears in her eyes. His expression softened, and he smiled faintly, extracting a handkerchief from one pocket. "Now dry your tears," he said, dabbing at them as he spoke, "and blow your nose, and tomorrow, when you have recovered your composure—and your manners—you may resume your search for love." So saying, he turned and started for the steps, sending Leslie fleeing to her room to avoid detection. He was worn out by a day full of Nyah's antics and looking forward to getting a little sleep.

"I need not continue my search for love," Nyah blurted tearfully from behind him.

Roarke paused and turned back to her. "Well, if you wish to terminate your fantasy, that is entirely your affair; but please do let me know your decision, won't you?" Once more he turned away and retreated up the steps. Behind him he thought he heard Nyah say something more, but her voice was so soft that he assumed she was talking to herself, and retreated to his own bedroom. When she was gone he intended to lock up the house and retire for the night. Fleetingly he wondered what tomorrow would bring, then pushed the thought away. He'd find out all too soon as it was.


	14. Chapter 14

§ § § -- November 2, 1980

Just after lunch, Roarke and Leslie made some rounds, checking in on the vacationers and making sure things were running smoothly. "Why wasn't Tattoo at lunch with us?" Leslie asked.

"I'm not sure," Roarke said. "I do know he had planned to spend part of the morning working on a painting. Now that you mention it, it's a little strange that he didn't come to the house for lunch. Perhaps he got caught up in his work—that isn't unusual." Leslie grinned and nodded in understanding, and together the two strolled off along a shaded path that was lined by trees and bushes crammed with enormous tropical flowers, carrying on an animated conversation.

"I thought you were supposed to meet your friends yesterday afternoon," Roarke said.

"I was," Leslie admitted, "but they weren't there when Nyah decided to take her first trip to the pool—which is a good thing actually—and then I just never managed to get back there. Not that it bothers me that much. I was such a flop at Myeko's party, I didn't feel much like sitting in on the post-game commentary."

Roarke laughed. "I suppose that's understandable, but I think you're making a bigger deal out of it than is warranted. Why, did someone laugh at you?"

"Well, Toki, of course, but that's nothing new," Leslie grumbled. Chuckling, Roarke patted her shoulder; and that was when they heard Nyah's voice calling Roarke's name. They stopped where they were and turned, watching her run to catch up with them.

"Yes?" Roarke inquired.

"I must speak with you," Nyah said breathlessly, and at Roarke's prompting, she beamed at him. "I have found the love I have been searching for."

"I'm very happy for you, Nyah!" Roarke said, while Leslie stared on with interest. "Who is the fortunate man?"

"You, Roarke," Nyah replied softly, neatly shocking Roarke and stunning Leslie. "It's always been you." With that, she tipped forward and kissed him.

Roarke regained his composure with remarkable speed, started to speak and hesitated, carefully choosing his words. "I am very honored that your quest for love has brought you to me, but you must look further. You have been my pupil, and I your teacher; it's not unusual to mistake that relationship for something much deeper, Nyah."

"But my love is true," Nyah protested, sounding so wistful that Leslie almost felt sorry for her. "You have great strength, yet you are gentle; you have courage, but an understanding heart." Leslie had to smile at that; she knew exactly what Nyah meant. These qualities in him had helped her find happiness and peace after the enormous upheavals in her life. But as Roarke smiled in silent acknowledgement, Nyah's face suddenly shifted in some nameless way and her blue eyes took on a mesmerizing quality. "Look into my eyes and love me, Roarke…love me," she commanded.

Roarke stared at her quietly for so long that Leslie began to wonder if the mermaid had actually succeeded in entrancing him; then he shook his head, relieving her greatly. "Nyah, Nyah," he admonished, "did you think to seduce me with trickery and win my affection by unnatural power? What would love won that way be worth?"

Nyah stared pleadingly at him. "But I feel this ache of longing for you. I see your face when you are not there; I hear your voice speak my name as in a dream. And I don't know how to tell you these things…to touch you as you have touched me." She laid her hand on his face, and he smiled again and wrapped his own hand around it.

"You have done that just now, without sorcery," he said. "I do have love for you, Nyah, but not the love you wish for or deserve."

"But why not, Roarke?" she protested.

Roarke regarded her as he might have done with Leslie, fondly but paternally. "You are a child in so many ways," he said, gently holding her face between his hands, "and a gentleman does not take advantage of innocence. But thank you…most sincerely, thank you." Nyah studied him wistfully, then seemed to accept his verdict and stepped back, suddenly looking guilty. Leslie squinted at her, wondering what that was about.

Roarke noticed it too. "What is it now?"

"My fantasy was to know love," Nyah murmured, "and now that I have, I'm ashamed of myself."

"Why?" Roarke asked.

Reluctantly Nyah met his gaze. "I sent Tattoo out to sea, so that he would not come between us."

He frowned at her. "What do you mean, 'out to sea'?" Leslie bolted full upright, eyes wide with apprehension.

"I sent him to find me a small boat, to get him out of the way," Nyah explained painfully. "And then I ordered the currents to carry him beyond the reef."

Leslie gasped loudly, and Roarke gave Nyah a hard, alarmed look. "The waves out there will capsize a small boat, and Tattoo is unable to swim a stroke. He will drown!" With that Roarke started back down the path at a run, the way they had come. Leslie, in sheer panic, seemed to have wings on her feet, racing out ahead of him. Nyah rushed after them, crying out Roarke's name, but he and Leslie both ignored her, intent on getting to the beach.

By the time they got there, the surf Nyah had put under her control was exploding over the reef in breakers some twenty feet in height. Leslie searched the angry ocean but to no avail; Roarke and Nyah stopped beside her. "Where is he?" Leslie cried.

"He must have drifted far out—I can't see him," Roarke said. "There is no choice but to swim out and hope I find him." He began to remove his jacket as he spoke, while Leslie gaped at him, frozen with horror. "We may both drown because of your cruel act, Nyah!"

"No, wait, Roarke," Nyah cried with honest anguish. "I am truly sorry! I will find him—I will prove my love." She raced out across the sand, still a bit clumsy on her legs, and splashed into the surf while Roarke watched in surprise. Leslie clutched his arm as if to keep him from following, and they watched Nyah flail her way into deeper water, clearly struggling to stay afloat.

"She needs her tail," Leslie blurted out the thought as it came to her. Roarke glanced at her, then smiled and nodded, drawing her in close with one arm and raising the other while she watched. His actions now were the reverse of those he had executed the previous morning; he raised a fist momentarily, then extended his hand, fingers outstretched, focusing deliberately on Nyah.

The sea bubbled and boiled around the sinking woman, and Roarke turned his hand counterclockwise, completing the mermaid's retransformation. Seconds later Nyah's head bobbed above the waves. "I understand now!" she called back at Roarke. "I understand." He smiled a little, still holding Leslie close by his side, and Nyah turned and swam strongly into the towering waves.

"She's going to kill us someday," Leslie muttered in a shaky voice, and Roarke laughed, squeezing her but never taking his eyes off the sea.

"Perhaps one day," he said, lightly joking, "but not this time. Indeed, she is preserving a life, and that is the greatest proof there can be of her love."

§ § § -- November 3, 1980

Monday morning, Roarke went back to the cliff and scanned the water, then noticed a disturbance and watched it. Sure enough, Nyah popped above the surface and beamed up at him. "I am a creature of the sea once more, Roarke. My only regret is that I did not love you as a mortal woman would."

"Saving Tattoo was love in its highest form, Nyah," Roarke assured her.

"But not the love that might have been between us," she countered.

"No, but we have touched, you and I—and the memory is one I will never forget." He smiled.

"Nor I," Nyah said softly, then grinned. "But…I have not given up. You see, we shall meet again…again, my love." Roarke simply gazed down at her, his expression inscrutable, and Nyah upended herself and dove beneath the waves, gliding silently away into the blue-green depths. Roarke smiled to himself at last and watched her wake slowly spread and dissipate before leaving.

He was back in time to join Tattoo and Leslie for the trip to the plane dock, where they met a cheerful Tony Chilton. "Well, Mr. Chilton," said Roarke, "are you ready to go back to the routine of flying passenger planes instead of combat missions?"

"More than ready, Mr. Roarke," Chilton admitted.

"But you were one of the flying aces," Tattoo said. "One of the heroes."

Chilton studied him. "I've been thinking about that, Tattoo," he said, "and…well, maybe the ones who make it out of a war alive—they're merely survivors. The ones who don't make it are the only heroes."

Tattoo's face took on a reflective look. "Hm. I never thought of it that way."

Roarke leaned slightly forward with concern. "I sincerely hope your fantasy was not a disappointment to you, Mr. Chilton."

Chilton shook his head. "Oh, not at all, Mr. Roarke. I'll be forever grateful to you. You've given me something that no other man could possibly have—a real feeling and memory of his own father, strong, forever young." He removed a cigar from his jacket pocket.

Roarke glanced down at it, nodded slightly. "And a good shepherd."

Chilton smiled. "You were right," he said, sniffing the cigar. "It _is_ a good Havana—difficult to come by nowadays." Roarke nodded once more, and Chilton turned and started for the plane, lighting the stogie as he went.

Tattoo peered up at Roarke curiously. "Boss, what's the cigar have to do with it?"

"Oh, it's more than a cigar, my friend. It's also a memory, a celebration, a reaching out across many years…a touching between a father and his son."

"Father?" echoed Leslie, thinking for a moment, then staring at Roarke. "You mean…he met his dad in his fantasy? And…"

Roarke nodded again. "The father who was killed when Mr. Chilton was only two months old, and whom he had never known—until this weekend."

Leslie's gaze drifted back to watch Tony Chilton ascend the dock and climb into the charter plane, and a faraway look came over her face. "A very lucky man," she said softly.

"Indeed," Roarke agreed and traded one swift, knowing glance with Tattoo. "Indeed."

§ § § -- April 6, 2006

They were all laughing when Rory tipped his head and addressed Roarke. "Uncle Roarke, I thought mermaids weren't s'posed to be real. My teacher says they aren't. Trista Makula in my class thinks they are and my teacher told her that isn't true."

"Young Trista is wiser than her years," Roarke said with a smile. "Tell me, Rory, if mermaids didn't exist, then how could I have known one for so long?"

"Yeah, I guess that's right," Rory mused.

"I suspect 'young Trista' is also wiser than her teacher," Christian remarked, setting off more laughter. "Does it surprise you to hear me say that, Mr. Roarke? After all, you and Leslie tend to get good comic mileage out of my disbelief over some of the phenomena you encounter on this island."

"I think you got used to the whole mermaid thing because Haruko tends to talk so much about Akima when she's here sitting for the triplets, my love," said Leslie, and Christian chuckled agreement.

Just then Rogan appeared at the shutter doors. "Och, there you are, Julie lass. I'd begun wondering what happened to you and the lad. Thought you had scads to do today."

Julie gave him a dirty look. "You just couldn't resist reminding me, could you? Well, it can wait. We're enjoying ourselves too much in here. Why don't you come in and join the party? Rory, if you let your father have your chair, he might let you sit in his lap."

Rogan surveyed the room. "Why not? Although somehow I think you're getting off far too easy, me lass, with the only unoccupied lap in the room." He grinned and came into the study, taking Rory's place in the chair and securing his son on his lap. "A good day to you, uncle. So what exactly goes on in here, then?"

Roarke explained what they were doing, and Rogan nodded. Rory spoke up then: "We were just talking about mermaids, Daddy. Uncle Roarke knows they're real, just like Trista Makula in my class. He said my teacher's wrong."

"Well, of course she is, lad," Rogan said tranquilly. "Catch a mermaid in the right frame of mind, and you'll be having a friend for life. I understand your babysitter found that out firsthand, Christian."

"So she did," Christian said and grinned. "You've spoken about a third encounter with Nyah. When did that happen?"

"Oh, that was after Lawrence took over Tattoo's job for a year," Leslie said, "after Tattoo got married and left the island. She paid about as little attention to me that time as she did a few years earlier. It was Lawrence who usually suffered the brunt of her temper, and I have to admit, I was secretly glad. Lawrence and I had our difficulties."

"I'll have to tell Christian about your encounter with the cat potion," Roarke said.

Leslie mock-glared at him, and Christian peered at him in puzzlement. "Cat potion? Dare I ask what that was meant to do?"

"Later," Leslie said firmly. "Right now, I suggest we finish discussing Nyah." She then proceeded to head off any further chatter about cat potions by launching into the story.

§ § § -- March 24, 1984

Leslie still sometimes had trouble getting used to the new ritual of meeting Lawrence at the other end of the veranda from where they used to meet Tattoo after the latter had come down from the bell tower every Saturday. Lawrence's arrival on the island had brought about quite a few changes that still unnerved her, but she had never really found the courage to ask Roarke about it. All year long the fantasies had leaned toward the sensual, and overall Leslie felt a little as if she were in the midst of a slightly distorted dream.

They greeted one another as always and got into the open-topped brown convertible that pulled up in front of the house—one of the biggest changes Lawrence's arrival had precipitated. Leslie still missed the open-sided red station wagons with their candy-striped canopies; it seemed as if there had been a concerted effort to erase as many traces of Tattoo's presence as possible. She climbed into the back seat beside Roarke while Lawrence sat up front with the driver and they headed down the Ring Road; no one spoke the whole way there, which was something else yet that was different from when Tattoo was there.

Suddenly Roarke's gaze drifted off into space and he stared at nothing for a long moment, as if listening; his movement jolted Leslie out of her reverie just before he ordered, "Stop." When the car came to a halt, he stood up and stepped out. Lawrence stared in sheer bewilderment; Leslie watched her adoptive father vanish into the vegetation along the side of the road, in the direction of a quiet lagoon which lay not very far from this section of the Ring Road.

Lawrence twisted in his seat and stared at Leslie. "Good heavens, miss, has Mr. Roarke gone completely mad?" he asked in all seriousness.

She smiled. "I doubt it," she said. "There's sure to be a method to what looks like his madness, so don't worry—we'll find out in due time." Of that much she was sure; what bothered her was a sudden prickling of déjà vu.

Roarke stood at a concrete boat landing off the Ring Road and watched a lovely red-gold head break the water's surface. "Hello, Roarke," said Nyah the mermaid.

"Hello, Nyah," Roarke replied. He watched her as she dove back in and swam toward him till she had nearly reached the boat landing.

"Are you surprised to see me?" she inquired coyly. In the years since Roarke had last seen her, she had changed a bit herself; now she'd taken to wearing a tiara, apparently as befitted her royal status in life.

"Oh, yes, Nyah, very surprised," Roarke said. "What brings you back to Fantasy Island after all these years?"

"I'm a thousand years old, Roarke. I'm tired of being immortal! I'm tired of falling in love with sailors; I'm tired of luring them to their deaths. I'm _bored_, Roarke!" Nyah bounced impatiently in the water. "And my fantasy is to end it all. I want out."

In the car, Lawrence had gotten out and followed Roarke through the bushes, clearly not trusting Leslie's suggestion not to worry. She could only shake her head and mutter to herself, "Old worrywart," before she caught the driver's eye in the mirror and blushed. But the driver grinned at her and nodded his agreement, and she couldn't help laughing.

With no idea that Lawrence had sneaked down to spy on his conversation with Nyah, Roarke stared at the mermaid in amazement. "Oh, Nyah, Nyah…I can't possibly give you such a fantasy!"

"You have to," Nyah retorted regally, as though handing down a command. "You're the only one who knows how to end immortality!" She stared pleadingly at him. "Please, Roarke, let me die."

Roarke shook his head slowly. "Nyah, the answer is no."

Her sea-blue eyes grew narrow with anger; the mermaid clearly still had her hair-trigger temper. "How dare you refuse the wish of the Most Royal Princess of the Seven Seas and daughter of Neptune! You'll regret this, Roarke, I promise you. Fantasy Island will never be the same when I'm through with it!" She whirled around and swam away; Roarke watched her go for a moment before turning and starting back toward the car.

Lawrence stumbled out of the bushes looking a bit as if he had been bludgeoned, and Leslie eyed him curiously while he slumped into the front seat. "See anything?" she asked casually.

"I thought there was a…" Lawrence began, hesitated, then shook his head. "Perhaps I'd better make an appointment with the optometrist." She gave him an odd look but let it go. A moment later Roarke returned and got in as well, and they resumed the ride to the plane dock.

There he introduced their only fantasy, while Lawrence once again unnerved Leslie with his unusual knowledge of the fantasies. She sometimes wanted to ask Roarke to let her stay at home while he and Lawrence went to greet the guests, but never actually followed through on it; she enjoyed helping her adoptive father far too much.

But Lawrence seemed elsewhere mentally on their way to see to the beginning of the fantasy, and by the time they had returned to the main house—where Roarke had rearranged the furniture in his study so that the settee and chairs were gone and his desk occupied the spot under the shuttered windows—Roarke had finally noticed.

"You seem unusually preoccupied today, Lawrence," he remarked questioningly.

Lawrence, clearing teacups from the low round table beside the staircase that led to the second floor, said, "No doubt just overwork, sir. I seem to be suffering from a mild…hallucinatory symptom." He stood up with a loaded tray in his hands.

"You, Lawrence?" Roarke asked, genuinely surprised. Leslie eyed her father's assistant, wondering just what he thought he had seen.

Lawrence turned and nodded with a curiously sheepish look on his face, then happened to glance at the open French shutter doors and nearly dropped the tray. His eyes popped wide open in a way Leslie had never seen on anyone else. She and Roarke followed his gaze; there stood a lovely, slender young woman whom they both recognized. Her questions answered, Leslie gave Lawrence a sidelong glance, feeling shamefully superior with the realization that she knew something he didn't!

Roarke, for his part, looked annoyed at sight of the newcomer, who strolled into the room and said, "I came to see if you'd changed your mind about my fantasy." She settled on the edge of Roarke's desk as he stood up. "As you can see, I've learned to trade my beautiful tail for these awkward legs you mortals insist on wearing." She spread her skirt to indicate said legs and smiled at him. Lawrence just stared.

"Yes," Roarke said, looking impressed and amused simultaneously, "apparently you've learned a great deal about magic, Nyah." He moved around the desk and paused in front of the mermaid. "But still very little about unselfishness or good manners."

"Now Roarke," Nyah said sweetly, "I promised myself to be above common anger, no matter how justified." Leslie noticed that she sounded different, as if she had aged somewhat in the three and a half years since they had last encountered her. Her speech was still faintly flowery, but noticeably less musical.

"Excuse me, sir," Lawrence said suddenly, and they all looked at him.

"Yes, Lawrence?" Roarke inquired.

"If you don't mind, sir, I'll be off to replan the dinner menu. I'm changing the entrée. I'd planned on…" His gaze shot across Nyah's legs, as though he expected to see a tail there, and concluded, "…fish." So saying, he walked out. Nyah gaped after him, looking outraged; Leslie watched her warily, staying behind Roarke's desk as if glued there.

"Fish!" Nyah hissed, mouth dropping open. _"Fish!!"_ She jumped off the desk and started toward the French doors through which Lawrence had just exited, and Roarke followed her hastily with some alarm.

"Now now, Nyah," he began, "no…"

Nyah glared after Lawrence, ignoring Roarke utterly. "Father Neptune," she incanted, "your royal daughter asks that you teach a lesson to he who has just insulted her…"

Roarke rolled his eyes. "I warn you, Nyah…"

"_Now!"_ shouted the mermaid, and the sound of a loud, heavy splash echoed from outside. Leslie bounded out from behind the desk and joined Roarke in staring in astonishment at a thoroughly drenched Lawrence, who held a tiny wriggling fish in one hand and looked quite poleaxed. Leslie glanced at Nyah, who looked pleased with herself.

"Seems I've been struck by a wave, sir," Lawrence said a bit dazedly.

Roarke and Leslie noticed the fallen tray and broken china at his feet, and Roarke tried to regroup. "No doubt an isolated thundershower, Lawrence," he suggested, not quite convincingly. "Now why don't you put that minnow into the pond and change into some dry clothes." He smiled, looking only slightly rattled. Still with the stunned look, Lawrence slowly turned and wandered away, the seaweed draped over his shoulder swaying gently with his movements.

Roarke turned to Nyah, took a firm grip on her arm and yanked her around to face him. Shaking his head, he demanded, "What does one do with a thousand-year-old child?"

"Give her her fantasy, Roarke," Nyah murmured, with a particularly seductive look on her face that Leslie didn't like at all, "and she will first give you ecstasy beyond your wildest imagination." She leaned in and kissed him; Leslie turned her back, feeling her face flame red, beset with the recollection of Nyah's last visit and wondering if Roarke would go so far as to spank the mermaid the way he had done back then!

Nyah pulled back and asked with a smile, "Well?"

Roarke closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath and smiled back at her in a patently fake manner, which fooled her nonetheless, before saying, "I'm sorry, Nyah."

She stared at him incredulously, ignoring Leslie, who had half turned back and was watching intently. "When I kissed you, you felt nothing?"

"Oh, I felt a great deal, Nyah," Roarke said. "I felt the cold green sea closing about me, and the cold tentacles of seaweed pulling me down into the dark, icy depths." Leslie grinned.

Nyah pursed her lips, glaring at him. "If you were the gentleman you pretend to be, Roarke, you'd forget about my past," she said and started for the door.

Roarke followed her. "Nyah, Nyah, why don't you go back to the sea? Go back to your own realm and be content."

"Content!" she shrieked, frustrated. "You mean bored, bored, _bored!"_ Roarke smiled indulgently at her tantrum; Nyah wheeled to face him with new fury in her eyes. "You refuse my fantasy again?" At his unperturbed nod, she hissed, "Then that does it!" She climbed into the foyer, stopped for one final glare and vowed, "Now you're _really_ in for it!" With that threat, she left at last.

Roarke looked after her for a long moment, then shook his head. Leslie stood quietly, hands on the edge of the desk, watching with bright eyes; there was a poorly stifled smile on her face. When Roarke started back to the desk and saw it, he gave her a strange look. "Just what are you laughing at, young lady?"

She shrugged and grinned fully. "So much for being 'above common anger'." That made Roarke laugh, and she immediately felt better.


	15. Chapter 15

§ § § -- March 24, 1984

Lawrence came back in about half an hour, wearing dry clothes and looking a little nervous. "I've changed the entrée, sir," he announced as soon as he walked in the door. "And as you can see, I've procured fresh clothing for my day's work."

"Very good, Lawrence, thank you," said Roarke, as if nothing strange had happened at all.

Lawrence paused just a second or two to peer oddly at Roarke, and Leslie saw it. _There goes the stiff upper lip,_ she thought and had to squelch a smile. Then the Englishman cleared his throat and asked, "Is there anything you wish me to do just this moment, sir?"

Roarke looked up. "You might take charge of ordering a replacement tea set for that table," he suggested.

"Yes, of course, sir. Right away." Lawrence hesitated once more, this time opening his mouth as if he were about to say something else; then he seemed to think better of it and simply departed. Both Roarke and Leslie watched him go.

"Do you think Lawrence realizes what Nyah really is?" she asked, waiting till after they heard the outside door close before she spoke.

Roarke seemed surprised. "Well, I don't know. Why do you ask?"

"Because I'm wondering a few things. I mean, obviously he isn't too sure, and that means you didn't tell him." She swiveled in her chair to face him when he gave her his full attention. "Since you didn't, then he probably suspects, but he isn't really convinced…"

"What makes you think he suspects?" Roarke asked.

She half-shrugged. "When you stopped on the way to the plane dock this morning—I guess that must've been when Nyah called you—he got out and followed you a minute or so later. When he came back he was muttering something about going to the optometrist. I figure he saw you and Nyah talking, and he probably saw her in her mermaid form but just didn't believe it. And he still doubts it, even more so now because she came in here looking like any normal human being with her legs, you know…except that he was just unsure enough to hedge his bets. After all, he changed the entrée."

Roarke laughed. "A nice bit of deductive reasoning, Leslie. And by the way, I noticed your attempt to hide your amusement at Lawrence's unfortunate little mishap. I truly wish the two of you would call a truce, for the sake of the working atmosphere around here."

Leslie tipped her head aslant and regarded him thoughtfully. "Tattoo would've known about Nyah," she said, registering the surprise that flashed over his features again. "If he'd asked questions, you'd have been more straightforward with him than you would with Lawrence. That is, if he hadn't known about Nyah before, either he'd have guessed, or you'd have said something to that effect. But you're not enlightening Lawrence." She took in his startled look and grinned. "Come on, Mr. Roarke, face it, you don't feel as comfortable with Lawrence as you did with Tattoo, and we both know it. You just won't admit it."

"I'd certainly not admit it in front of Lawrence," Roarke retorted, only to see her grin turn into a knowing snicker. "For your information, young lady, I let Tattoo learn the oddities and vagaries of his job here very much as I am allowing Lawrence to learn them. The reason Tattoo's attitude was different is that he was here for many years before you arrived, and had had time to accustom himself to these things. Lawrence has been in my employ little more than six months. And you yourself, who have been here five years, have not yet completely learned to accept everything that occurs here. I doubt you ever will. You expect too much of Lawrence."

"It's part of his job," said Leslie.

"It's also part of yours," Roarke replied firmly. "You make allowances for others, but not for Lawrence, and that is based on your animosity toward him, no matter how well you think you hide it. I ask you once more to please keep the peace, so that we may all work together in harmony."

Leslie stared at him for a moment, then frowned suspiciously. "I'll bet you haven't had this same talk with Lawrence," she muttered. She felt as though she were getting all the blame for the fact that she and Lawrence had had trouble adjusting to each other's presence.

"I have," Roarke said a little shortly, "just so you are aware of the fact."

She shrugged again and got up. "Well, if that's the end of the subject, then I guess I'll go see about the luau preparations."

"Sit down, Leslie," Roarke requested, his voice softening, and she paused to stare at him again. "There's no need, Lawrence will take care of it. Leslie, I know you miss Tattoo. But you know full well that it was his choice to leave. He was not fired, nor did he pass away, nor was he forced to leave in any other way. Lawrence is not to blame for taking Tattoo's place."

"Do you miss Tattoo?" Leslie asked, still suspicious.

"He is one of the very best friends I have had in all my life," Roarke told her. "Of course I miss him."

"Then…why all the changes?" she asked, her unease with the way things had been operating since Lawrence's arrival finally overflowing the dam. "New cars I could understand…but completely different from our old red ones. All the different landscaping since he got here. Rearranging the furniture in this room and even installing those double doors in the inner foyer." She indicated said doors, which now closed off the study from the inner foyer and had the odd side effect of requiring Lawrence to announce any arriving visitors. "This place is turning into an English castle garden, and it's all happened just since Lawrence started working here. Out with the old, in with the new."

"I had no idea it bothered you to that extent," Roarke said, astonished.

"Well, it does. It's bad enough Tattoo left, but did we have to do all this stuff to make it seem like he was never here at all?" she complained. "I'd rather put things back the way they were."

"Indeed!" Roarke commented. "You never said anything about it before."

"I didn't want to make waves," Leslie said a little lamely and shrugged again. "Not that I expect you to actually do anything about it. It must've cost plenty of money to do all this remodeling and get the new cars and have all the landscaping done and the Japanese garden built. It's a done deal. And all these crazy, weird new fantasies—" She caught herself, met his gaze and tried to smile. "Don't worry, Mr. Roarke, I'll live with it. I might not like it, but I'll live with it. Don't tell Lawrence I said anything. And I'll take care of the luau errand. Please." Without waiting for his acknowledgement, she hurried out of the house, using the French shutters to make her exit. Roarke stared after her, wondering if she had been trying to make a point by so doing, whether knowingly or not. And what had she been about to say in regard to the fantasies?

Before he could pursue this line of thought any further, the double doors opened and Lawrence came in, looking peculiarly spooked. "Sir, I thought you should know. One of our guests nearly drowned on one of the lagoon beaches. Fortunately, he was saved by another guest, Mr. McCall."

"Ah, yes, Duke McCall," Roarke said, recognizing the name. The man was a well-known deep-sea diver, with a level of fame close to that of Jacques Cousteau. "So he was there in time to rescue the other man?"

"It appears he was, sir," Lawrence said, nodding. "Considering his predicament, it's well that he didn't have to move into deep waters to make the rescue."

"Yes," Roarke agreed. "If you would, please, Lawrence, bring Mr. McCall here. I would like to thank him personally for his heroic deed."

"Immediately, sir," Lawrence said and promptly departed. Within fifteen minutes he was back with a tall, muscular man sporting a shock of straight blond hair. Duke McCall was handsome and earnest, but he had a desolate look about him that Roarke had noticed from the moment the man had first set foot on the island.

He shook McCall's hand. "There is no way I can thank you enough, Mr. McCall, for saving a man's life on my island."

"I just happened to be closest when the guy went under, Mr. Roarke," McCall said with a dismissive shrug.

"Ah, you're too modest," Roarke told him with a smile.

"What puzzles me is what happened to the beautiful lady," McCall remarked, making Roarke go alert. "I mean, one minute she was there, the next minute she was gone. I'm afraid she drowned."

Roarke knew then what had necessitated the rescue in the first place, and resolved to deal with that problem at the earliest possible opportunity. Smoothly, without revealing anything to his guest, he said, "Oh, I feel there is small chance of that, Mr. McCall. A very small chance. I'm sure the, um, 'lady' in question will turn up."

McCall sighed softly. "Well, I appreciate your nice words, Mr. Roarke. But I'm leaving today, so…"

Roarke eyed him with surprise. "Your fantasy, if I recall correctly, was to go back to the sea and dive once more."

"Yup," McCall said bleakly. "I spent most of my life on the sea or under it, diving professionally on ships like Cousteau's." Roarke nodded. "Had an accident and nearly died from a case of the bends."

"And to deep-dive again would mean your death," Roarke filled in.

"That's it," McCall confirmed, sounding hopeless. "I know you can't provide the kind of miracle I need, Mr. Roarke. No wonder you stalled me off."

"Delay your departure one more day, Mr. McCall," Roarke requested. "And don't give up hope—not quite yet." He smiled. "Please excuse me."

As it happened, Roarke had a certain mermaid he needed to talk to, and some sense unique to him told him just where she was. He found Nyah in one of the smaller bungalows with a bathroom open to the outdoors, though carefully screened for privacy by lush tropical vegetation; she lounged in a tubful of suds, her tail flapping gently now and then as she enjoyed her bath. She looked up in surprise when the door opened and Roarke let himself in. "How did you know I'd be here, Roarke?"

"Oh, it wasn't too difficult," Roarke said. "This happens to be our only unoccupied bungalow."

"Are you angry?" she inquired coyly.

"That you tried to drown one of my guests?" Roarke returned, with a broad smile that lent additional irony to his words and his tone. "No, no, why should I be angry?"

"I wasn't really going to let him drown, Roarke. That was to teach you a lesson. I'd have saved him myself if that silly mortal hadn't interfered."

Roarke's smile vanished and he eyed her stonily. "Of course," he said with quiet skepticism. Nyah noticed it and glanced down, almost as if repentant.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

Roarke shrugged and tossed his hands into the air a bit, as if giving up. "Face reality, I suppose," he said with mock resignation. "Face up to the fact that your regal powers are simply beyond my ability to control." He took a seat on a tiled ledge between the tub and the doorway into the main room. "After all, you are Nyah…daughter of Neptune, Princess of the Salty Realm."

She looked away, nose in the air, and observed, "That is true."

"And so," Roarke concluded, "I've decided to help you after all."

Nyah began to light up. "You mean…you're going to give me my fantasy?"

Slowly Roarke arose, his gaze intent, with a tiny light that Nyah missed. "I promise to help you to the best of my ability," he said solemnly.

"Oh, Roarke, I knew you'd see it my way!" Nyah crowed in delight. "And I promise, no more tricks on your guests."

"Thank you, thank you so much," said Roarke and peered at her closely. "You realize, of course, that my decision is irrevocable."

"Of course!" Nyah tipped her head back in sheer joy. "Imagine…no more boredom, no more sailors…no nothing." Her smile faded somewhat as the reality of what she was asking for finally sank in a bit. "Just…the end of Nyah. Peace."

Roarke studied her. "Is something wrong?"

"Do I have time to go down to the sea and say farewell before…you know, before _it_ happens?" she asked hesitantly.

Roarke took out his gold watch and gave it a cursory glance. "I believe I can spare you enough time for that, yes."

"Thank you, Roarke." Nyah looked up at him and then added, almost inaudibly, "I think."

He smiled ever so slightly. "Until later, Nyah. Until later." With that he departed the bungalow, but not before he heard the sound of her weeping, faintly emanating from behind.

‡ ‡ ‡

At supper that evening Roarke decided it was time to have a little chat with Leslie; Lawrence was out at the luau, so he felt free to speak with her. "Would you care to talk a little more about the subject we were discussing this morning?" he inquired.

"Huh?" She looked up, then turned crimson. "Oh, you mean all the changes in décor and the new cars…"

"No," said Roarke. "You…you started to say something about the fantasies."

Somehow the ruddiness of her cheeks intensified. "Well, that wasn't very important."

"On the contrary. If you nearly brought it up and then stopped yourself, I daresay it was more important than you care to let on." He gazed at her. "Leslie, we've known each other long enough that I think you should feel comfortable with telling me anything that's on your mind."

But Leslie felt that she had gone too far as it was, and shook her head vehemently. "Mr. Roarke, let's put it this way. I'm just your second assistant…I'm nobody that important. I don't run the business or own the island. It's not for me to say anything about the kind of fantasies you grant."

"But they bother you, for some reason," said Roarke.

She could see he didn't intend to back down, and blew out her breath in defeat. "They just seem a lot more…well, a lot different." His gaze was steady, and she met it only reluctantly and with a high degree of embarrassment. "Okay, dark." Still he stared, and finally she growled, _"Sexual!"_

Roarke thought back for a moment and realized that to a large extent, she was right. Of course, this hadn't been true of every weekend since Lawrence had started the job, but there had been a goodly increase in the number of fantasies with distinctly sexual overtones: prostitutes trying to reform, extramarital affairs either beginning or in their death throes, _ménages à trois_, at least one rape victim, a woman or two who had been sexually abused as a child. There had even been a single mother who wanted, just for a weekend, to live the dicey, daring life of the seventies-style swinger. He focused on his daughter again and smiled a little. "My business," he said gently, "is to grant fantasies. It is not my place to judge why a person wants a particular wish granted, nor the nature of that wish."

"But you can't possibly approve of some of those," she protested. "We used to have a lot more weddings, now it's just quickie affairs. Even Julie's complained a few times about how she's had maybe three weddings on her property ever since Lawrence…" She stopped.

"Do you think Lawrence is responsible?" asked Roarke straight out. "Tell me the truth, Leslie."

"No!" she burst out, looking so aghast that Roarke believed her. "I mean…I don't know the reasons for the changes. I just know that everything's different since…since Tattoo left and since Lawrence came, but even more so since Lawrence. We had all last summer between them and things didn't really change, but as soon as you hired Lawrence, Fantasy Island just wasn't the same anymore."

Roarke smiled faintly. "Perhaps not. I'll admit, the changes have been numerous, but to tell you the truth, I had been considering the landscaping for quite some time, even before Tattoo left us. But…" Here he hesitated just for a moment, then said, "You mentioned once, a few weeks ago, that Lawrence seems to know far more about the fantasies than Tattoo did." She nodded, and he admitted, "Well, that is because he is the one who chooses most of the fantasies I now grant."

"Then Lawrence _is_ responsible!" she blurted, stunned. "Mr. Roarke, he's…"

"Go on, Leslie," he urged. "Get it all out now, while we are discussing this."

"It makes him a hypocrite," Leslie said reluctantly, unable to maintain eye contact any longer. "He stands there while these people are telling you about their fantasies and makes disapproving remarks and revolted faces, and acts as if there's something radically wrong with them, or…or like they're beneath him or something. And yet, he's the one picking them out for you to grant. What's _with_ him?"

Roarke grinned, astounding her. "I suspect he's hoping they'll find some manner of redemption here. And to that end, I do the best I can to help them find it. Lawrence's initial reactions to their predicaments or wishes are beyond my control, and I have spoken with him about it a time or two. But he holds himself and others to a very high standard and, I suspect, has great difficulty controlling his true reactions to what these people want or need." He settled back in his chair. "What of you? What do you think of all this?"

"Well, I can't say I'm very comfortable with it," Leslie confessed, reddening again. "I guess that makes me kind of judgmental. But I keep trying to remind myself that everybody has a fantasy, from the richest royalty to the most dirt-poor trailer trash, and they all have the same right to see it come true. And anyway, a lot of those folks have been able to change their lives for the better. The hookers got out of the business, and the lady who was raped saw her attacker put away for what he did to her, and the ones who were bitter and leery of everybody finally learned how to really love someone. So in the end it's not really that bad. I guess it's just that…oh, I don't know. Maybe it's only that this stuff is so different from what we always did before, and I'm having a hard time getting used to it."

"Understandable," Roarke assured her. "I myself haven't had such an easy time readjusting, but it's necessary to keep the business alive." He considered a moment. "However, if it will make you feel better, I'll discuss this with Lawrence. I'm afraid he's taken advantage of his position—you'll recall when he invited a butler friend of his to the island, among other things you haven't seen—and it seems I must remind him who is in charge."

"Would it be all right," Leslie dared to ask, "if I took over choosing and scheduling the fantasies, like I did when I was in school? Or is that Lawrence's job forever from now on?"

Roarke chuckled. "I'll bring that up with him as well, if you like. I know how much you loved reading the letters. Now do me a favor and finish supper, before Mariki decides to blame you for the fact that we're taking much longer than usual to eat our meal."

Leslie grinned. "Thanks, Mr. Roarke. I think I've got my appetite back."

§ § § -- March 25, 1984

Not long after breakfast the next morning, Roarke, Leslie and Lawrence made their rounds; Leslie had been apprised after their discussion the previous evening of what Nyah's fantasy really was, and had asked Roarke outright if he was still keeping the secret from Lawrence. "I mean, even after yesterday when he decided against having fish for supper at the hotel…"

Roarke chuckled. "He hasn't mentioned it, but I'm sure he knows full well after Nyah paid her little visit yesterday and mentioned replacing her tail with a pair of legs right from the beginning. If he and Nyah can steer clear of each other, we may actually manage to avoid bloodshed." They'd shared a good laugh at that.

Now, Lawrence had been talking about his altercation with Jean-Claude, the hotel's irascible chef whose demeanor softened slightly for Leslie and no one else, admitting that he had never seen the man in quite such a towering temper as when he'd come in with his suggestion to change last night's entrée, when they noticed Duke McCall talking with a number of young women. They stopped within McCall's line of sight, and he grinned and approached them, as if happy for the diversion. Roarke shook his hand when he got abreast of them and remarked, "Mr. McCall, you've become quite a hero on the island."

"Yes, your daring rescue is on every lip, sir," Lawrence noted. "Particularly female lips." They all chuckled.

"Uh, speaking of females…that's what I wanted to talk to you about, Mr. Roarke. Did you ever find out who that fantastic woman is?" McCall asked. "The one who was with the man I pulled out?"

Lawrence's expression looked rather frozen. "Fantastic is the word…" Leslie swept her gaze roundly skyward and away from him with a wry, half-stifled smile.

"Oh, you mean Nyah," Roarke said. "Yes, she's an old…uh, acquaintance of mine."

"I know this may sound stupid," McCall admitted, "but there's something very special about her. I can't seem to get her out of my mind. Do you think you could arrange for me to meet her?"

"Oh, you wouldn't want to do that, sir," Lawrence said immediately.

"Oh? Why not?" McCall queried.

"Because she's a—" Lawrence stopped himself just in time and neatly substituted, "She has a very bad temper, among her other negative qualities." Leslie, who was still looking away from Lawrence and now trying to pretend she didn't know him, suddenly spied Nyah herself, gazing down at them with an increasingly ferocious look, and looked back in the other direction, inching closer to Roarke.

McCall looked a little startled, and Roarke broke in then, putting one hand on Leslie's shoulder. "I'm sure Mr. McCall appreciates your sincere concern for his happiness, Lawrence, but I'm also sure you have other duties to attend to." His expression took on a meaningful cast and he concluded pointedly, "Now."

Lawrence assumed a faintly wounded look but subsided. "Yes, sir." To McCall he said, "Good day, sir," and left them. Leslie glanced back at him and shook her head.

"As you have already discerned," Roarke began, leading Leslie and McCall away, "Nyah is a female of unusual and striking personality—" At that moment there was another very loud and heavy splash, this time accompanied by a stunned shout. All three of them cranked around to see what had happened; some yards down the path back to the main house, Lawrence stood frozen, drenched from head to toe, dripping like a waterfall and festooned with seaweed. Leslie slapped a hand over her mouth and whirled back around in the hope that Lawrence wouldn't see her trying not to laugh; Roarke simply cleared his throat and continued on with McCall at his side. "Uh, as a matter of fact, I happen to know that Nyah is, at this very moment, strolling along the beach, which you will find if you follow that pathway over there." He pointed to their right. "I think you'll find she loves the sea as much as you do." McCall lit up at that. "In any case, I'm sure a man of your character will have no difficulty introducing himself."

"I think I can handle that," McCall said. "Thank you, Mr. Roarke."

"You're very welcome," Roarke replied and watched him leave. Leslie suddenly let out a loud snort, and he turned to peer at her oddly. She was staring at Lawrence again; he followed her gaze and found himself wondering if Lawrence was wearing more seaweed and accompanied by more fish than the first time, or if he was just dreaming it.

‡ ‡ ‡

Leslie had been sent to Amberville to pick up the replacement teacups and pot for the ones that Nyah had made Lawrence break the day before, and had found herself spending more time there than she'd planned because she'd run into Maureen there. All the other girls had left the island for college; only she and Maureen had remained behind, because they both already had jobs they enjoyed and preferred to remain in them as long as circumstances allowed it. It had been some time since she'd seen even Maureen, and it was so good to connect with her that the two girls had lingered for more than two hours, catching up on everything and comparing notes on who sent them letters from school.

She returned to the main house with the box containing the tea set to find Nyah sitting out front in a wheelchair, with some long, odd appendage covered with a blanket jutting out in front of her. She stopped and stared in amazement, and Nyah glared up at her. "What are you looking at?" she demanded.

Leslie blinked. "Nothing," she said. "It's just that I'd never have expected to see you in this position. Did Duke McCall break your leg and then abandon you?"

"In the first place, this isn't a leg, it's my tail," Nyah snapped. "And secondly, it's not Duke McCall's doing at all. This is the fault of your caretaker."

Leslie felt herself frost over; she couldn't abide people who held themselves above others. "Excuse me, but he's not my 'caretaker', like some animal in the zoo. Just so you know, Mr. Roarke and I are legally father and daughter now. And I'm sure he had a very good reason for taking your legs away."

"Thank you, Leslie," said Roarke's voice, and girl and mermaid both turned to see him crossing the veranda towards them. Descending the steps, he took in Nyah's "disability" with an amused look. "Are you ready for a stroll, Nyah?"

"Oh, Roarke, don't be so patronizing," Nyah barked. "Save it for your…daughter." She eyed Leslie up and down, and then sniffed disdainfully. "Does she have to come along?"

Roarke looked at Leslie, who smiled slowly. "I wouldn't miss this for all the teacups in China," she said, and Roarke chuckled at her little pun, watching her set the box down on the top step of the porch. "I can't wait to hear what happened."

Roarke moved around behind the chair and began to push Nyah along down the Main House Lane, with Leslie strolling alongside, hands clasped behind her back. "How dare you undo my magic," Nyah growled at Roarke in a simmering rage. "I need those disgusting things you call legs! And I refuse to be wheeled about like an infant!"

"When you promise to stop soaking Lawrence with your petulant waves," Roarke retorted coolly, "then I may consider restoring your legs."

"That's not fair!" squawked Nyah, flicking her tail in annoyance. The blanket flipped up along with it, folding back and exposing the forked end of the tail in question. Roarke stopped the wheelchair, exchanging a glance with Leslie, and she ran up to fold the blanket back over the errant tail while Roarke looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. Just as Leslie was straightening up, a movement caught her eye and she saw Duke McCall stop short on the side of the lane, where he seemed to have been heading in their general direction.

Nyah sat up straight. "Get me out of here," she hissed at Roarke, as Leslie jumped out of the way and Roarke pushed the wheelchair forward to meet McCall.

"Why?" Roarke inquired with studied blankness, and looked up as if in surprise when McCall jogged forward to meet them. "Ah, Mr. McCall!"

"Mr. Roarke," their guest acknowledged. "Nyah…what happened?"

Roarke began, "Well, you see—"

But Nyah cut him off. "Well, I—I twisted my ankle," she said, looking uncharacteristically sheepish. Roarke and Leslie stared at her in surprise.

"Yes," Roarke murmured, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, it must be more serious than that," McCall said. "I mean, the wheelchair…"

"Well, it's…it's a sprain," Nyah amended. McCall still looked skeptical, and she embroidered on the tale. "But I was feeling a little faint…and Mr. Roarke insisted." The last word came out with a half-sneer, forced between Nyah's gritted teeth. Leslie grinned.

"Yes, that much is certainly correct," Roarke agreed. "Well, I'm sure you won't mind taking over as chauffeur for a while; Leslie and I do have other things to do." Nyah was plainly casting about for some kind of protest, but unable to come up with anything.

"I'd be delighted," McCall agreed readily. Roarke nodded at Leslie and started off, and she was more than glad to follow. They carefully ignored Nyah's desperate calling of their names.

"Mr. Roarke, are you trying to start up a romance?" Leslie asked.

He grinned at her. "I can't guarantee that anything will happen between them. But it would certainly keep Nyah busy, wouldn't it?" Leslie burst out laughing, and he chuckled and squeezed her shoulder.


	16. Chapter 16

§ § § -- March 25, 1984

Mid-afternoon, with Roarke out for a short time to handle some small problems, Lawrence and Leslie were working in a fairly peaceful silence at the main house. Roarke must have spoken with Lawrence and gotten him to agree to some concessions, for Leslie was once more in charge of choosing and scheduling fantasies, under the criteria Roarke had given her when she'd first started doing so. She had a very tall stack of envelopes to sift through and was still at it, looking forward to reading the letters again. Lawrence, arranging the new teacups on the round table near the stairs, stopped abruptly when Nyah came in unexpectedly. He stood at attention and stepped carefully and deliberately away from the table, looking ready to run for his life if necessary. Leslie had paused at Lawrence's movement and was watching, head lowered a little, her smile under careful control.

"Something we can do for you, Nyah?" she asked politely, wondering how Nyah had gotten her legs back.

"Where's your…father?" Nyah demanded, stumbling slightly over the word. Leslie tilted her head to one side, wondering why the mermaid was having so much trouble getting used to the idea that Roarke had an adopted child now; maybe she had known him too long as a childless bachelor, she supposed.

"Something came up with a guest," she said to Nyah. "You look like you need someone to talk to, though."

"I do," Nyah admitted. "He simply infuriates me, that man. I truly believe he uses his powers just to vex me to the point of uncontrollable rage."

"How do you believe he does that?" Lawrence inquired.

"Don't you see what Roarke has done?" Nyah exclaimed, pacing the floor while they watched, Lawrence with an understandably nervous mien about him. "Making me fall in love at a time like this is his revenge. Just because I played a little trick or two on him…"

"Oh, I'm positive he wouldn't do a thing like that, madam," Lawrence said. Nyah's head whipped around so she could glare at him, and he backtracked, wide-eyed. "Unless, of course, you say so." Leslie had to hide another grin at that.

"I do say so," Nyah retorted. "Roarke knows how badly I want to end it all. He's mocking me. Do you know that I've picked fights with killer whales? I swam head-on into a cruise ship just to end my immortality. Nothing worked!"

"I can imagine you being very difficult to defeat, madam," Lawrence said.

"I thought," scoffed Nyah, "of all people, Roarke would be sympathetic. Roarke would understand. Hah." She rolled her eyes, and Leslie glanced up with a headshake, culling out a couple of bills and putting them atop Roarke's date book.

"Does all this imply that Duke McCall is the object of your passion?" Lawrence inquired, sounding strangely subdued. Leslie peered at him through her bangs, realizing he was extremely skittish around Nyah and finding herself feeling sorry for him.

"Of course," Nyah snapped, "that's what I'm _saying!"_ She paced on. "To make me fall in love at a time like this, on the day when I'm entering my mortality, is like snatching a wonderful feast from the jaws of an innocent baby shark."

Lawrence's eyes popped at that, and Leslie ducked her head, trying to keep from giggling. For such a normally reserved person, Lawrence occasionally evinced the most hilarious reactions to unexpected things, and had equally hilarious facial expressions to go along with them.

Just then they heard Roarke's voice from the shutter doors, and all three looked at him standing there. "Are you saying you want to change your fantasy, Nyah?"

"Oh, there you are, sir," Lawrence exclaimed, face a study in relief. "Nyah was just confiding her dilemma to me—one which I will always treasure, madam—and one which I know you will be delighted to solve for her, sir." He cleared his throat. "Now, I must be about my duties." Having thus excused himself, he wasted no time making himself scarce, and Leslie grinned without looking up from the mail, shaking her head a little. Roarke smiled faintly with mingled amusement and resignation, nodding thoughtfully.

"Everything all right, Leslie?" he asked, coming into the room.

"Just fine, Mr. Roarke," she replied, looking up long enough to smile at him.

"Good," he said and turned his attention to the mermaid. "Well, Nyah?"

She eyed him diffidently. "Is it possible to change my fantasy?"

"Oh, anything is possible," Roarke said, still smiling.

"I could make this love affair last. I really could, Roarke."

"He is a mortal, Nyah," he reminded her.

"The love I feel for Duke McCall is different, I swear it!"

"You know the rules as well as I do."

"But it would be so…wonderful…"

"For how long?" Roarke countered. "For your maximum limit?...which was, uh, what?"

Nyah looked sheepishly away and stared petulantly into the corner, pouting. She drifted toward a chair and sank into it, finally admitting, "Forty-three minutes." Leslie's head came sharply up and she gaped at Nyah in amazement.

Roarke nodded, clearly unsurprised. "Is that the fate you want for Mr. McCall?"

Nyah reluctantly shook her head. "No." She stared at her feet for a long minute or so before letting her head fall against the back of the chair and gazing in a very lovelorn sort of way at him. "I truly am in love this time, Roarke." He tilted his head curiously, still skeptical but no longer completely sure she was putting on an act. "It's better," she murmured sadly. "Better I should die than Duke McCall." She dropped her face into her hands and started to cry; Leslie blinked and looked at Roarke, who seemed to sense her gaze and smiled at her before regarding Nyah very thoughtfully for some time.

‡ ‡ ‡

Dressed up as if on their way to a formal party that evening, Roarke and Leslie entertained Duke McCall on the terrace behind the main house. At almost nineteen, Leslie was finally old enough to have champagne, although Roarke made a point of insisting she have only a small glass of the stuff. She felt grown-up, sitting with the two men and sipping the bubbly drink. They had already discussed Nyah's little secret at some length, which was what had prompted McCall to ask for champagne in the first place.

"Mr. Roarke, are you telling me Nyah's actually a mermaid?" he finally asked.

"I am telling you precisely that, Mr. McCall," Roarke said. "Do you believe me?"

He looked undecided for a good fifteen seconds or so, gave Leslie a questioning look and got a somber nod in return. He lifted his champagne glass and gazed into its depths, his eyes unfocused, as if ruminating. At last he said, quite unexpectedly, "I was diving alone in the Galapagos one time, Mr. Roarke. At sixty feet I heard this eerie singing…sweet and unearthly." Leslie and Roarke exchanged swift glances; they both knew exactly what he meant. McCall looked up and asked, "Do you believe me?"

"Yes, we do," Roarke said, nodding.

"Another time I was diving a wreck off the Channel Islands in California," McCall went on, rising and slowly circling the table, "and I swam toward an open hatchway. For an instant—just an instant—I saw a woman's face there, smiling at me. Then it was gone."

"What are you telling us, Mr. McCall?" Roarke asked.

"That I believe. My life's prepared me for this." He loosed a small huff of amusement and realization and went to refill his glass. "It explains so much about Nyah. The things she said she did in the sea, things no mortal woman could have done. That strange allure."

Roarke got up then and moved back to the champagne table so he could see McCall's face when he spoke to him. "You know that for a mortal man to love a mermaid—that strange, feminine essence of the sea—means to die."

McCall frowned. "Then the old legends are true."

Roarke nodded. "Nyah truly loves you, Mr. McCall. She has chosen to end her life—yes, to die herself—rather than bring that fate to you." McCall had looked sharply up with startlement in the middle of the second sentence.

"She told you this?" he asked.

"She did," Roarke said and drew in a breath. "And now I have a question for you, Mr. McCall. Is your love strong enough? Are you willing to do the same for her? Die yourself, to save her life?"

McCall stared at him. He had too much food for thought to answer. Roarke and Leslie watched him raise his glass to each of them before he wandered away down a path with a shuffling gait, head down, champagne glass almost dangling between two fingers.

"Do you think he'll go for it?" Leslie asked, long after he had vanished.

"I don't know," Roarke admitted. "I don't know."

‡ ‡ ‡

Still clad in his tuxedo, Roarke stood in the soft darkness of Sunday evening beside a lagoon not far from the outdoor dance pavilion behind the hotel. Nyah was dressed in a lovely, glittering gold ball gown. "So how will my ending happen?" she asked.

Roarke gestured at the tiny fishing dock that jutted into the water. "You will enter the water here," he began, "swim out to sea, Nyah, and then…" His voice trailed off and he twisted his wrist slightly, indicating the words left unspoken. There was no real need to say them; they knew.

"At least it'll happen out there," Nyah murmured, then looked at him. "How can I ever thank you for…arranging things?"

Roarke smiled. "A last favor for an old friend…how could I refuse?"

Nyah laughed softly. "We've had some good times, haven't we, Roarke?" He nodded, and at that precise moment Lawrence and Leslie arrived simultaneously, Lawrence with Duke McCall in tow. "I see we're on time, sir," said Lawrence briskly.

"Perfect, Lawrence," said Roarke as Nyah stepped abruptly back toward the water, staring at McCall. She didn't stop moving, just edged into the water, gown and all, without ever taking her eyes off him. Leslie moved to stand beside Roarke, and she and the three men all watched with grim faces.

"Goodbye, Duke," Nyah said softly. She pivoted to face the water and dove in.

"Have you made your decision, Mr. McCall?" Roarke asked then.

McCall took a deep breath, gazing at the spot where Nyah had gone under. "Yes, I have," he said. Nyah's head came up; she aimed one last wave at them and then submerged herself once more. McCall took it as a cue and removed his tuxedo jacket and tie, handing them to Lawrence. He then shook Roarke's hand and said quietly, "Goodbye, Mr. Roarke, Leslie. Lawrence…" And with that, he strode toward the water.

"Mr. McCall—!" Lawrence protested, aghast. McCall walked out onto the pier, glanced back over his shoulder at them, then dove off the end and vanished beneath the water's surface. "Sir," Lawrence entreated, "do something!"

"I have, Lawrence," Roarke replied, watching McCall swimming strongly in pursuit of Nyah. "I have." He smiled and winked at Leslie, and she grinned back.

Nyah became aware that she was being followed and resurfaced to see who it was, her face growing alarmed when she recognized McCall. "No, my love, go back!"

"No, Nyah," he said. "Whatever happens, happens to us together!"

Leslie caught a slight movement at her side and saw Roarke narrow his eyes with purpose in McCall's and Nyah's direction. He made a fist, twisted his wrist, and the water seemed to boil around the two swimmers for about five seconds before subsiding. Roarke closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again and smiled ever so slightly. Leslie suddenly realized just what he had done and slipped her hand into his to squeeze it.

The couple in the water kissed, then turned and waved at their hosts, who all waved back, beaming. At last Nyah and McCall started on their journey to the open ocean, sliding beneath the waves with a splash and a flash of tails.

"I suppose that for the next five hundred years, she'll be spoiling little merbabies," Lawrence remarked wryly to Roarke.

"Yes," he agreed with a laugh, "and let's hope for all our sakes that they take after their father!" Leslie giggled loudly.

"Amen to that, sir," said Lawrence, with that popeyed look about him for emphasis. "Amen!"

§ § § -- April 6, 2006

Julie smirked when the tale ended. "How funny, I always wondered why Lawrence was in such a rotten mood that Monday when he came around looking for my room list. So that's why. You know, maybe that was a factor in why he decided to leave here and take up employment back in England the next summer."

"I've always said, those Brits and their stiff upper lips are just no match for a place like this," Rogan proclaimed. "We Irish, now, we're the much better choice. We've always accepted magical beings."

"Don't be smug," Julie said reprovingly, patting his knee.

"Besides," Leslie added direly, "you never met Adam O'Cearlach."

"No," said Rogan slowly, "can't say I have…" Which prompted Roarke, Leslie and Julie to tell the story of Lawrence's madcap Irish friend and what he had done to Leslie during his brief tenure on the island.

"Oh," said Rogan when they'd finished. "Well, on O'Cearlach's behalf, 'tis truly sorry I am, Leslie. As well ye sent him home, uncle. I don't think even Fantasy Island could have taken too much of that one's antics. And to think he wasn't even a MacNabb!"

"If he were, I think the family would've disowned him," Julie commented, evoking laughter. "Hey, uncle, I just thought of something. We've hosted all these different competitions on the island over the years—a marathon, a decathlon, a bunch of beauty contests, weight-lifting, food and wine contests…"

Leslie spoke up, "That reminds me…there's a cheesemaking contest coming up the end of the month. Think you might enter that, Julie?"

"I don't have the time for that, and anyway, I can't make my own cheese," Julie said, wrinkling her pert nose. "Although I could be a judge if you need one, uncle."

Roarke smiled. "I appreciate the offer, Julie, but we already have the judges lined up for the competition. What brought you to mention the various contests?"

"Well, I was especially interested in the food one, and I bet Rogan would get a real kick out of hearing about that wine contest," Julie said.

"There was a wine contest, was there?" Rogan inquired, glancing at Christian, who also looked interested.

"First things first," Roarke said with a grin. "Since it was Julie who asked, let's talk about the cooking competition first. It was still Leslie's first year on the island, and seeing her reactions to our many varied fantasies never failed to be a treat for me. And she was especially interested in that one, since one of the perquisites was all the free samples we wished, as hosts for the event."

"We ate really well that weekend," Leslie remembered with a grin. "Well, see, this is what happened…"

§ § § -- September 15, 1979

Roarke and Leslie strolled out to the top of the porch steps together, Roarke in a very good mood as he checked his gold pocket watch and smiled at the sunny sky. Leslie heard the unmistakable rapid pace of Tattoo, and peered over her shoulder to watch him approaching from the other end of the porch where he'd just come down from the bell tower. There was a broad smile on his face and he was carrying something in one hand. "Hi there, Leslie," he said and then turned to Roarke, exclaiming effusively, "Good morning, boss! Oh, you look so great, you look fantastic!" Roarke reacted in surprise, looking flattered and pleased.

"The, uh, boutonniere…may I ask what it's for?" he inquired curiously,

"Oh, the boutonniere? It's for you, boss! Bend down…" He deftly fastened the partly opened rosebud to Roarke's lapel, beaming all the while. "There you are…you're going to look smashing!" Roarke straightened up, now looking suspicious. "There you are," Tattoo gushed again. "Oh, you look fantastic! Really beautiful! Can I do anything for you, boss? Anything else?"

Roarke ignored the question and parried with one of his own. "Tattoo, why am I suspicious?"

Surprised, Tattoo blinked at him. "Suspicious? You? Uh, well, gosh, uh, boss, I don't know…" He did a pretty good acting job, but even Leslie could detect the nervousness he gave away with his uncertain words.

Roarke offered wryly, "Perhaps it's because you seem to be trying to kill me with all this kindness, and that usually means something is definitely wrong."

Tattoo managed to look thoroughly innocent. "Wrong? Well..." He shot a look off to one side, spotted the approaching car and brightened with pure relief. "Oh! Here comes the rover! We don't want to be late, boss…let's go. Come on, Leslie." With that, he led the way off the porch. Roarke started to speak, but abandoned the effort and followed him to the car. Leslie slid as usual into the middle seat, but Tattoo held Roarke up, whipped out a dust cloth and whisked imaginary dirt off the front passenger seat. Just as Roarke thought he might finally be allowed to seat himself, Tattoo blurted, "Hold it!" and tried to wipe off Roarke's pants leg.

Roarke protested, "Tattoo—"

But Tattoo broke in, "Okay, come on, boss, we don't want to keep our guests waiting." Leslie stared at him in amazement as he handed Roarke into the car. "There you go, are you all right, boss?"

"Yes…" Roarke responded, giving him a very odd look.

Tattoo got in at last, apparently oblivious to the stares he was getting from both Roarke and Leslie by now. He signaled at the driver and said, "Okay, let's go." Roarke, beaten to the punch again, gestured in confirmation, and they were off to the plane dock. The whole way there Leslie considered asking Tattoo what was really going on, but she suspected she'd be wasting her time. It tended to take a lot of badgering to coax Tattoo to admit to things that bothered him.

Once the plane had moored, the band had begun playing, and the first guests stepped out, Roarke introduced the Rawlins family from Hollywood. It turned out they were a famous stunt family, though the father and son had been estranged since 1974 and it was the senior Rawlins' fantasy to reconnect with his son. Leslie remembered that a film crew had been filtering onto the island all week long and supposed now they were going to be shooting stunt work during the weekend; she might have been interested if the stunts in question didn't sound so dangerous. So it was with some anticipation that she turned her attention to their second fantasy.

Roarke introduced the middle-aged woman who climbed onto the dock, gazing all around her with amazed eyes. "Mrs. Marjorie Gibbs, all the way from Santa Fe, New Mexico, where she operates the Ace Truck Stop Fast Food Grill. Mrs. Gibbs' fantasy is to compete in—and win—the Fantasy Island Grand Cuisine and Cookery Contest."

Tattoo aimed an astounded look at Marjorie Gibbs and then at Roarke. "Her?? In _our_ cooking contest?"

Roarke smiled. "Yes. Well, you see, a new freeway bypassed her establishment. So all her customers, long-haul truckers on Highway I-5, have contributed money to send her here. Mrs. Gibbs hopes that winning our cookery contest will give her the money to relocate her restaurant on a new route."

Tattoo protested, "But boss, some of the most famous chefs in the world are here for the contest. How does she hope to win?"

"Hey, at least we'll get to eat some good food," Leslie tried to present a bright side. But Roarke merely smiled, looking mysterious, then toasted their guests. Marjorie Gibbs looked fascinated and delighted to be where she was, and raised her glass eagerly in their direction. Leslie found herself hoping the lady's evident joy at being here would be borne out by her fantasy.


	17. Chapter 17

§ § § -- September 15, 1979

Tables covered the lane and side yard around the main house, bearing all sorts of exotic dishes; people milled around checking out items. The initial setup for the contest had begun as early as the previous day and the head judge, a pompous French-British food critic known throughout Europe and North America for his exacting critiques and superior manner, was seated smack in the middle, observing everything. Leslie saw him and made a face to herself as she, Roarke, Tattoo and Marjorie came down the veranda, Tattoo wearing a chef's toque.

Marjorie stared at the tables, amazed. "Oh my goodness, look at all the beautiful food!"

Roarke smiled agreement. "Yes, it is very impressive, isn't it." Just then he spotted another contestant and immediately went to intercept the man, a tall, spare, gray-haired fellow with a saturnine face and eyes that looked tired when in repose. "Ah, Mr. Lang! So nice to see you again." Lang smiled, making his face seem much less worn down, and Roarke performed introductions: "Mr. Joe Lang, Mrs. Marjorie Gibbs, one of your competitors."

Joe Lang aimed his warm smile at Marjorie. "Charmed, I'm sure!"

Marjorie smiled readily back and said, "Likewise." Her expression seemed to mirror his, indicating they were taken with each other at first glance.

Tattoo had been scanning the tables and now looked up to remark, "We're gonna have a very tasty fantasy."

Roarke nodded. "Oh, I would say so, yes," he said with his accustomed dignified enthusiasm.

"We have the superstars of the gourmet world," Tattoo noted, rather gravely. Marjorie's face acquired a worried expression, and she looked to Roarke for support.

"Does that mean that I don't have a prayer?" she asked.

Roarke stared at her with gentle reproach. "Oh, Mrs. Gibbs! Where is your faith? This is Fantasy Island! I would never have agreed to your fantasy if you didn't have a chance!" Marjorie beamed with relief. Then Roarke added, "However…" and Marjorie's smile instantly vanished, replaced by apprehension. "As Tattoo said, they are the best chefs in the world." He indicated a few of the contestants with gestures. "Carlo Franconi, from Italy; Mikael Gabor, from Budapest…" Then he paused as a goose started squawking nearby; Marjorie lit up, clearly drawn toward the sound.

"Look at that!" she exclaimed, enchanted. A mustachioed chef leading the goose on a rope tied around its neck wandered around a nearby table, staring suspiciously at its contents.

Roarke nodded and said, "Yes. Antoine deBouvret, one of the great chefs of France…isn't that so, Tattoo?"

Tattoo smiled in recognition and replied, "Oh, he is, boss."

"At least," Roarke amended, "he _was_. His famed Paris restaurant, Chez Antoine, was recently demoted from three stars to one on the gourmet guide. You might be wary of him, Mrs. Gibbs…it is said he is a desperate man. He can regain his reputation only by winning this weekend here."

Marjorie giggled a little nervously. "Well…I'm not afraid of competition. Not too much."

"That is the right attitude!" Roarke commended with cheerful approval. "Now, the grading will be continued under the direction of our chief judge, Georges Bouffetout…the famed authority on haute cuisine. Come, let me introduce you."

As they were approaching Bouffetout, they saw Antoine deBouvret hovering around the renowned critic's table, for all the world apparently kissing up to him. "Georges! Georges Bouffetout? _Mon ami…mon placer_…I did not know that you would be doing the judging."

Bouffetout regarded him with amused scorn. "Well, you'll be hard-pressed on this one, old boy…you've only one star left to lose." Antoine looked chastened, and Leslie listened doubtfully, not sure whether she sided with the insufferable Bouffetout or the smarmy Antoine. "After this you'll be running one of those junk-food franchises that are so infesting the colonies." He chortled derisively.

At this point they reached Bouffetout's table and Marjorie instantly bent down to pat the goose's head. "Oh, look how cute we are!" she exclaimed, then gave Antoine a teasingly reproachful grin. "She's too cute to cook."

Antoine eyed her and smiled a patently fake smile. "Oh, I'm not going to cook it…" In an aside he muttered, "Idiot!" Roarke, who happened to be standing directly beside him, eyed him sternly; but Antoine didn't notice at all. To Bouffetout he said as if no one had spoken: _"Voilá, le pièce de résistance_, fresh pâté—"

Marjorie broke in delightedly, "Patty! What a super name for a goose. So she's a girl."

The others exchanged dubious looks, even Joe Lang; but only Bouffetout spoke, staring at Marjorie in disbelief. "Good heavens, who's this, the scullery wench?"

Roarke tried to smooth things over. "Uh, Mr. Bouffetout, may I introduce our last contestants…"

Bouffetout gave him a revolted look and complained, "Must you?"

Visibly retaining his patience, Roarke soldiered on. "Mrs. Marjorie Gibbs and Mr. Joe Lang."

Joe, Leslie realized, was more savvy than he looked at first appearance; she had learned he was from Trenton, New Jersey, where he ran a popular eatery, and was a fairly taciturn man who seemed to miss little, if anything. With barely noticeable irony Joe said to Bouffetout, "Charmed, I'm sure." Marjorie just beamed at the critic, not seeming to care that her friendliness was one-sided.

Roarke went on, "I am certain our new contestants would like to see the kitchen. Tattoo, will you show the way? And Leslie, if you like, you may go along." She agreed, primarily because she was eager to get away from the suffocating atmosphere around Bouffetout and Antoine. They were like a couple of clashing hurricanes, she thought, between Bouffetout's haughtiness and Antoine's single-mindedness. She wondered if the latter knew Jean-Claude, the hotel's very touchy chef, who in fact was also entered in the contest.

"This way, please," Tattoo directed. Nods were exchanged and the foursome departed, leaving Roarke behind with Leslie's "hurricanes".

Antoine watched them go and snorted at Roarke, but Bouffetout was his usual haughty self. "Really, Roarke," he griped, "if those two oddities give me ptomaine, I'll sue you for this entire island!"

Roarke returned in a chilly tone, "I'm certain that will not be necessary, Mr. Bouffetout."

Bouffetout shook his head impatiently. "Can't you simply tell these peasants that pâté is the goose's liver and not the silly bird's name?"

Antoine rolled his eyes up and sideways in sycophantic agreement; but Roarke was amused. "Somehow I got the impression they wouldn't like to know," he commented, watching the goose pecking at the lush green grass. Bouffetout stared at him in annoyance; Antoine just glared.

‡ ‡ ‡

Roarke had decided to leave the filming company to themselves; the director had indicated he was already behind schedule because of problems with the stunt coordinator, who was the son of their fantasizing guest. So he had promised he would stay out of the way and let them do their work, while Tattoo was doing most of the supervising of the cooking contest. Leslie had decided it might be fun to hang out with him, since she was curious as to what sort of food would be served and figured that at least she could try some exotic "rich people" dishes for once in her life.

Tattoo had procured a copy of the menu for the competition, containing all the chefs' names and the recipes they planned to enter, and was going over it with Leslie. Many of the items had French names that only Tattoo could make any sense of. Eventually he got around to Antoine deBouvret's entry, and Leslie squinted at it. "Well, I know that one. I've seen it before. But what does it mean literally?"

"Well, _pâté_ means paste. It sounds almost the same, but you see this little mark over the A?" Tattoo indicated the little chevron hovering over the letter, and she nodded. "That means that the S used to be in the word but it was taken out sometime during the development of the French language. Dialect and so on that got entrenched, you know?" She nodded. "There are a lot of French words like that. Now, _foie_ means liver, and _gras_ is fat. So what you have here is 'paste of fat liver'."

"Ugh!" blurted Leslie, making a face. "It sounds better in French!"

"Most things do, I guess," said Tattoo, and they both laughed. "But that's because the animal whose liver is used in pâté is fed especially to make the liver oversized—that is, fat. You get it?"

"Oh, I see," she said with a nod. "So…what's it taste like?"

He grinned. "You probably wouldn't like it," he said. "But there's a lot of other dishes here you can try. We have plain homestyle country cooking in France too, you know. My mother did it all the time, she was a master at it. Oh, look at that, I didn't realize Jean-Claude had entered the contest." He squinted at the entry under Jean-Claude's name. "_Sacre bleu_, I can't believe he's really going to do that! That's a dish that hasn't been made in hundreds of years!"

"What is it?" Leslie asked, afraid to even try pronouncing it.

"_Tourte parmerienne_. It's made of pastry—looks like a castle, with chicken drumsticks for the turrets. And the drumsticks are coated in gold leaf." Tattoo shook his head, unaware of Leslie's amazed stare. "Where is he going to get gold leaf? I hope he's not expecting to win…"

"At least it's not frog legs," Leslie said.

"Don't knock it till you've tried it, as you say," Tattoo said, then looked around and frowned. "I better go talk to Jean-Claude anyway and find out what he plans to do about the hotel restaurant if he's going to be competing in the contest. Want to come?"

"No thanks," Leslie said immediately. She knew enough about Jean-Claude at this point in her tenure on the island that she tried to steer very wide berths around him. "I think I'll go back and see if I can help Mr. Roarke with anything."

Her words seemed to jolt Tattoo and he nodded quickly. "Yes, that's a good idea. I'll be back myself as soon as I finish talking to Jean-Claude. See you there."

As it turned out, the mail hadn't yet arrived for the day, so Leslie found herself at loose ends till the phone rang and it turned out to be Myeko. At first Roarke was indulgent; but Myeko was a chatterbox, and after Leslie had been on the phone nearly fifteen minutes, he was finally forced to ask her to hang up, for he was expecting a call from a CEO. With exquisite timing, Kali the native postal carrier came in bearing two large rubber-banded stacks of envelopes, and Leslie brightened, made her excuses to Myeko and hung up.

"Good!" she said happily. "I really love getting mail."

Roarke laughed. "Then that should keep you quite busy for the better part of the day. Where's Tattoo?"

"Talking to Jean-Claude about the hotel restaurant," said Leslie. Roarke nodded understanding and returned to the work he was doing.

After about ten minutes the phone rang and Roarke answered; it was the CEO he had been waiting to hear from. At the same time, Tattoo returned, for some reason carrying a feather duster. Leslie glanced up at him, but she was engrossed in the mail by now and the feather duster didn't really register.

She did, however, find herself listening in on Roarke's end of the phone conversation. "Yes, Mr. Besler, I am certain we can fulfill your fantasy…yes, uh-huh." Tattoo began dusting the desk and chair as he spoke, and Roarke gave him an odd look but left it at that—until Tattoo moved in front of him just as he asked Besler, "How many mermaids?" The word _mermaids_ got Leslie's attention and she forgot the mail altogether, watching with interest. Meanwhile, Tattoo shoved a hassock in front of Roarke's feet, while Roarke, looking startled at Besler's response, failed to notice for a moment and exclaimed, _"How_ many?...Well, that's more than I anticipated, but, uh…"

Tattoo hefted up Roarke's left foot, dropped it atop the hassock and tugged his shoe off while Leslie stared and Roarke valiantly pushed on with the conversation. "…but I'm sure we can accommodate you, yes." He shifted with annoyance as Tattoo removed his shoe. "When do you wish to experience your fantasy, Mr. Besler?" Tattoo patted Roarke's leg and Roarke put up his right foot, looking slightly harassed. Tattoo, nodding with satisfaction, proceeded to remove that shoe.

"Well," Roarke said then, "let me check my calendar, just one moment, please." Leslie promptly opened Roarke's date book to the first month with no scheduled fantasies and shoved it in his direction; Roarke cast her a quick smile of gratitude. Tattoo, oblivious, rummaged in a drawer, and Leslie's attention went right back to him as if magnetized. Roarke, thinking Tattoo had finally decided to leave him alone and letting his full attention go to Besler, looked over the month of December while Tattoo extracted a pipe from the drawer.

"Um…yes…yes, I think those dates will work out very satisfactorily," Roarke said, making a quick notation on the date in question. From somewhere Tattoo produced a pouch of pipe tobacco and swiftly filled the pipe. Leslie stared at him, wondering who the pipe was for; as far as she knew, neither Roarke nor Tattoo smoked. "Uh-huh, yes. Um…" This last word was inadvertent on Roarke's part, because Tattoo chose that precise moment to stick the pipe between his teeth. Leslie blinked in disbelief. "How many will there be in your party?" This through the pipe, which Roarke peered at with consternation, as Tattoo prepared to strike a match to light it. Roarke noticed this and decided at last that he'd had enough. "Uh, Mr. Besler, something unexpected has come up. May I call you back in a few minutes? Thank you." He hung up just as Tattoo got started lighting the pipe.

"Tattoo!" Roarke said sternly.

"Yes, boss?" inquired Tattoo, all brisk, studious business.

A bit exasperated, Roarke demanded, "Precisely what is going on here?"

"I'm just trying to light your pipe, boss," Tattoo said, as if surprised.

"Why?" broke in Leslie. "What're you doing with a pipe in the first place?" Disappointment shone through in her voice; she had always hated cigarette smoke, perhaps because she remembered Michael Hamilton having smoked for several years while she was a small child.

Roarke shook his head and assured her, "I haven't smoked a pipe in years." To Tattoo he commanded, "All right, out with it. Just why are you trying so desperately to kill me with kindness?"

Tattoo was the picture of innocence. "Oh, I'm just trying to earn my keep, boss."

"Well, then," Roarke countered, "I would appreciate it very much if you would earn your keep in some other, less distracting way. Hm? Do you understand?"

For the first time Tattoo seemed a little flustered. "Yes, boss."

"Good, Tattoo, good." Tattoo then grabbed the feather duster. Roarke watched, figured he was going to dust the room, and picked up the phone in preparation to make the promised return call to Besler. However, Tattoo started dusting _Roarke_ instead, making Leslie start to laugh with amazement. Before Roarke could even begin dialing the rotary phone, Tattoo heaved up his arm and dusted beneath it. Roarke froze and watched his every move, now more exasperated and bewildered than ever.

Tattoo shoved Roarke back in his chair, tossed the duster on the desk and immediately started chop-massaging Roarke's feet at the ankles, while Roarke gaped at him in disbelief. "Leslie," he said, almost pleadingly, "don't encourage him."

"But it's funny," Leslie said helplessly. "One thing's for sure, you're being well taken care of. I wish somebody would do that for me sometime."

Roarke sighed and stared off into the distance, resigning himself to his assistant's persistent ministrations. He hung up the phone and settled down to let Tattoo get it out of his system. Leslie watched for a couple of minutes, still grinning, until she saw Roarke begin to drum his fingers on the desktop and decided to rescue her guardian.

"Hey, Tattoo," she said, "I think Mr. Roarke wants to get back to that guy as soon as possible. I bet some of those chefs have some tasty stuff ready to eat by now. Why don't we go check on them?"

Tattoo agreed, much to Roarke's relief, and with a smile, quick salute and even a slight bow at Roarke, he left the house. Leslie got up to follow him, but Roarke stopped her. "Wait a moment, child."

She turned. "Is something wrong? Should I finish the mail first?"

"You can do that this afternoon." Roarke sighed heavily, hand on the telephone receiver, and gave her a smile filled with gratitude. "I merely wanted to give you my most heartfelt thanks for distracting Tattoo for me. I realize his intentions are good, but his timing leaves a great deal to be desired." She laughed, and he grinned at her. "You did me a great favor. I promise you I'll do something special for you. Just as a little reward for getting me off the hook."

Leslie laughed again. "That's okay, Mr. Roarke. I can't wait to find out how come he's doing all this stuff in the first place."

"That makes two of us," Roarke commented through another sigh. "Well, go ahead if you like." He watched her follow Tattoo out and shook his head once or twice before at last putting through the return call to Besler.

Tattoo and Leslie entered the kitchen together, where Joe Lang and Marjorie Gibbs stood one on either side of a steel table; Marjorie was just setting what appeared to be a pie on the tabletop. Tattoo greeted them with, "What's cooking, good-looking?" Leslie snickered softly, stopping behind him and eyeing Marjorie's pie, which for some reason was green.

Marjorie said amiably, "I'm just testin' out my spinach-pie recipe." She picked up a knife while Leslie blinked at the idea of putting spinach in a pie. "Cut you three a piece if you like."

Joe demurred, "Oh, that's not fair, I shouldn't taste your entrée."

"Aw, go on, try it," Marjorie coaxed, handing him a piece despite his protest. "You'll love it." Joe accepted with only a trace of reluctance and bit into it. Marjorie went on to cut pieces for Tattoo and a doubtful Leslie, who was too shy and polite to refuse something she wasn't sure she'd like.

Then she saw Joe's eyes widen with amazement. "Mmmmm! Wow, this is great!" Tattoo, looking impressed, nodded. Marjorie nodded encouragingly at Leslie, who gave up, shrugged mentally and took a small bite. To her astonishment, she realized she liked the stuff; it didn't taste like spinach at all!

"Hey," she said wonderingly, "this really tastes terrific!"

Marjorie beamed proudly. "My own secret recipe."

"I guess," Joe said, deeply impressed, "that's the best thing I have ever tasted!"

"Well, if you want the recipe, it's right over there on the table." Marjorie indicated the next table over, where they could all see two recipe cards just lying out for anyone to see.

"Not before the judging," said Joe firmly. "Maybe later, when it's over." Tattoo smiled, glad to see an honest contestant, and nodded at Leslie as if to say, _take a lesson from this._ But before Leslie could show Tattoo she was no fool by gently suggesting to Marjorie that she put away her recipe at the earliest possible opportunity, Joe looked at Marjorie, and they almost saw actual sparks fly between the two.

"Say, how would you like to take a walk?" Joe offered with a knowing smile. "By the lagoon?"

Marjorie grinned and nodded. "Sure…lead the way." Tattoo beamed, and Leslie giggled a little through her bite of spinach pie. The two contestants departed, with Marjorie tossing over her shoulder, "See you later, Tattoo and Leslie."

"Have fun!" Tattoo said cheerfully.

"Great pie!" Leslie added, and Marjorie beamed and departed with Joe who contributed, "Delicious!" The door slipped closed behind them; when they were gone, Tattoo slid a thoughtful glance to one side, carefully cut another piece of the pie, and strolled down to the other side of the room, making a left turn toward another part of the kitchen. Leslie followed, wondering what Tattoo was up to; a moment later she found out when he paused just shy of the area where Antoine deBouvret was working.

Just polishing off the last of her piece of pie, she peered around the corner of the latticed woodwork that screened Antoine's work area from those of the other contestants. Antoine's goose sat thronelike atop his table, _awk_ing now and then as Antoine worked. The chef seemed to be in a rare good mood, genially shushing the goose from time to time.

Tattoo and Leslie watched unnoticed for a moment or two; then Antoine looked around and saw them standing there. Rudely he barked, "Can you not read English? You have no right to be here! This is top secret!" As he spoke, he drew a white cloth over whatever he was making on the table, while Tattoo gazed on without concern, as if he had a secret.

"Sorry, but you will have to go a long way to beat this," he told Antoine cheerfully, holding up the second piece of pie he had cut. "Have a bite." With that he handed it to Antoine, who eyed it as if Tattoo had presented him with a live scorpion.

"What is this, an insult to Antoine?" he sniffed. "Why, I would not even feed it to my goose to make him sick. What is this pap…this concoc—this…" Even as he spoke, he took a bite—and his fractured English instantly died in his throat. Tattoo and Leslie looked on, grinning knowingly at each other as an expression of shock came over Antoine's face and he stared at Tattoo. "This…" He couldn't even speak, but there was no need. His expression and the pie spoke for themselves.

Tattoo smirked. "Good luck with the contest, _mon ami_. You're gonna need it." With that, he departed, chortling happily. Leslie went so far as to give the goose a tentative pat before Antoine lunged at her, snarling and threatening her in French; she sneered at him and hurried to catch up with Tattoo.


	18. Chapter 18

§ § § -- September 15, 1979

Leslie found it a little ironic that she wound up returning home for lunch; Roarke asked her why she had a disgruntled look about her, and she said, "I thought Tattoo and I could make lunch out of samples in the kitchen. But all we had was some of Mrs. Gibbs' spinach pie, and that just whetted my appetite."

Roarke chuckled. "I see. How are things going, then?"

"Seem okay," said Leslie. "Gosh, Mr. Roarke, I never thought I'd eat anything like spinach pie in my life, but the stuff Mrs. Gibbs makes is excellent! You can't really even taste the spinach at all."

"Hmm," said Mana'olana, the cook, coming out with their lunch. "Well, then, maybe I'd better get the recipe from your Mrs. Gibbs if she's willing to share it. Might help fatten you up some, young lady." Leslie rolled her eyes and Roarke chuckled again as Tattoo appeared on the porch and joined them.

"Come on, Mana'olana," he teased, "are you still trying to turn Leslie into a butterball? Let her be, she's fine just the way she is. Boss, you were right about Mrs. Gibbs. Her spinach pie is out of this world. If _m'sieur_ Bouffetout turns up his nose at that, then he doesn't know what good food is."

"That's gratifying to hear," said Roarke. "Shall we, then?"

They ate, being somewhat sparing due to the prospect of more samples later, and Mana'olana returned looking faintly hassled. "Never seen so many people in my kitchen at once, Mr. Roarke, and let me tell you, they're horribly territorial. I've been told to vacate the premises so many times, I'm ready to defect to the hotel for the weekend."

Roarke looked up as if stricken with inspiration. "Perhaps that's not such an ill-advised thought, Mana'olana. Jean-Claude has entered the competition, and neglected to inform us about it before yesterday. He also neglected to make arrangements for a replacement, so perhaps if you're willing, you might take over supervision and some preparations. Don't worry about us, we'll do just fine here."

"We'll get to eat some of the stuff they're making in the contest," Leslie put in.

"I might just do that," Mana'olana mused. "All right, but I ask only one thing. I want those fancy chefs to leave my kitchen sparkling clean before they leave this island. Is that too much to ask?"

"Not at all," Roarke assured her, smiling. "I'll pass on the word. Leslie, Tattoo, if you're through, would you both kindly procure me a copy of the final menu for the competition?"

"Sure, boss, no problem at all," Tattoo said immediately, looking unusually cheerful. "I'll get to it right away. Don't worry about a thing, I'll have it in your hands before you know it. Come on, Leslie." He trotted down the porch before Leslie had even gotten out of her chair; she glanced at Roarke, who had that bewildered look about him again, and giggled before departing in Tattoo's wake. Sooner or later they'd find out what was going on; they always did.

But when they did get a copy of the final contest menu, Tattoo discovered something that made his eyes go wider than Leslie had ever seen them before. _"Sacre bleu,"_ he muttered.

"What's the matter?" Leslie asked.

"This is bad news…very bad news," Tattoo said grimly. "Come on, come with me, we've got to find Mrs. Gibbs." Without explaining any further, he towed her along with him first to the lady's bungalow, then over to the lagoon where he figured Joe and Marjorie would have gone for their walk, without listening to her attempts to make him tell her. Finally she gave up and ran after him when he decided to head for the kitchen.

Joe and Marjorie were there talking as they burst into the outside door; Marjorie looked upset and was just saying, "…was right here on this table!" Tattoo hurried to a stop beside her, with Leslie behind him.

"Oh, here you are," Tattoo said. "We've been looking for you all over the place. Antoine has changed his menu at the last minute. You better read it." He hefted up the large menu, opened it, located Antoine's name and rattled off the assorted dishes underneath it. "Look. _Pâté de foie gras à la Antoine. Tourte d'épinards Parisienne…"_

Joe's long gloomy face took on an even grimmer look. "Does that mean what I think it means?"

Tattoo said, "It does if you think that it means 'spinach pie'…" Marjorie gasped in alarm.

"Antoine stole your recipe," Joe announced grimly. "He's not gonna get away with this."

"I'm afraid it's too late," Tattoo said, not without sympathy, but his voice firm. "He has already entered it as his own, and that means that no one can use his recipe."

"You mean I can't enter my spinach pie?" Marjorie exclaimed.

Tattoo shook his head regretfully. "I'm sorry."

"But that's not fair!" Leslie protested. "Can't we tell Mr. Roarke? Couldn't he fix it?"

"Leslie, it's already official. No changes after the final menu is issued, and this is it right here," Tattoo said, tapping the menu. "So this is the way it has to be."

Mournfully Marjorie murmured, "He said Patty was on the menu."

Tattoo clearly realized it was time to set her straight about the goose, and said, "Not exactly. Only her liver."

Marjorie stared at him with new horror. "Her _liver?!"_ she burst out.

Tattoo smiled patiently and explained, "It's not 'Patty'. It's _pâté_. You see, to make _pâté de foie gras_, first you take a goose, and you make her liver grow big. And then you kill her—" He made a slashing motion across his throat, and Marjorie recoiled. "…and then you serve her liver, and that's what they call _pâté de foie gras."_

Marjorie's jaw set. "Over my dead body. He may have stolen my recipe, but he's not gonna touch Patty. I don't care _whose_ goose she is!" With that, she struck out for Antoine's work area, closely trailed by Joe, Tattoo and Leslie. Antoine's work space was deserted at the moment and clean, except for a few stray salad leaves lying on the work surface around the goose, which seemed lethargic. "Oh, poor baby!" Marjorie crooned, lifting and cradling the quiescent bird. "Antoine's not gonna touch a hair on your head."

Leslie and Joe looked at each other a little incredulously, and Joe said gently, "Actually, it's feathers." They all looked at him, but his attention was on the goose. "She looks green around the gills. Let's get her outta here."

"Yeah, let's," Marjorie said, and they hastened out of the work area so they could spirit the goose out of the kitchen. Unfortunately, they had lingered a little too long, for as they crossed the room toward the outside door, Antoine came in with a couple of pieces of equipment and spotted them making off with the goose. He let out a yell and sprinted after them. Leslie and Tattoo ducked between tables; Joe followed while Marjorie, panicking, scooted around the wrong side so that Antoine caught up with her. Joe reached across the table, and without even hesitating Marjorie handed off the goose to him. Instantly he took off with the goose, which made not a sound of protest. Hastily Marjorie followed him out.

Antoine, furious, stopped long enough to yell at Tattoo in French, glared at Leslie and dropped his utensils on the table, then pursued Joe and Marjorie, hollering. Tattoo threw his hands in the air and complained, "There goes another wild-goose chase!"

"Oh, geez," groaned Leslie, but he merely shot her a look and stalked out, presumably to go after Roarke. However, Leslie couldn't resist and hurried out the outside door to find out what was happening. She suspected that Antoine figured she and Tattoo had been in on Joe and Marjorie's plot and didn't want to let them get away without some sort of retaliation; but she didn't care, for she hadn't understood a word of what he'd said anyway. _Dirty thief,_ she thought, _he deserves what he gets._

Outside Antoine was still shouting "Give me that goose! I'll have your resignation!" while Joe and Marjorie scuttled past Bouffetout's table. A little startled, Bouffetout stared incredulously at them. They shrugged sheepishly, then saw Antoine just as he caught sight of them and took to their heels again. Before Antoine could get very far in pursuit, however, he crashed headlong into a competing chef toting a plate piled high with fruit to a nearby table. Tripping on his own momentum, Antoine rolled over the table in question and knocked off everything atop it, following it all to the ground. At that point Leslie figured Antoine was too far behind to catch up with Joe and Marjorie now and raced for the house so she could get Roarke and Tattoo to help.

They came outside just in time to find Antoine shaking his fist at a Chinese contestant who had been railing at him and was now stomping off, carrying what appeared to be a ruined Peking duck in one hand. Antoine shouted after him, "Chop suey!" before he realized he had witnesses.

"Ah, there you are, Mr. deBouvret," Roarke said cordially. "I thought I'd find you in the kitchen!" It was merely his way of being diplomatic; Leslie had told him what was happening, and he had full knowledge. But Antoine lunged at Roarke with food-covered hands, his temper finally blowing the lid off the pressure cooker, and Roarke flinched violently back as Antoine began ranting incoherently in French.

Roarke calmed him down just enough to get him to use English, but he was so stressed and upset that he stuttered uncontrollably. "My friend…it, it-it-it-it is of no use, no, no, no, no." His hands were flailing uselessly; before he stopped to think about what he was doing, Roarke grasped them in another attempt to calm him down and abruptly let go, shaking fruit filling off his hands. "My goose, she is cooked!" the chef wailed dramatically.

Roarke looked at him in surprise. "Well, that's not unusual in a cookery contest." Leslie snorted aloud and started to laugh behind both hands.

Now, atop his frustration, Antoine looked disgusted, even through the mess on his face. "No, you do not understand. I do not mean cooked _cooked_, I mean cooked _gone_…I mean…I…they stole my goose," he finally managed to say. On Roarke's sympathetic look (while Tattoo and Leslie exchanged merry grins), he plowed on: "But Antoine is not ruined, no. Because I have another hole up my sleeve." There was more giggling from Leslie at the destroyed cliché. "Antoine will have his revenge, _m'sieur_. Ah yes…ah yes!" He scuttled off while Leslie finally released her glee with relief.

Roarke regarded her with amusement and observed, "Well, Tattoo and Leslie, it seems what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander." Leslie nodded complete agreement.

Tattoo peered up at him in confusion and responded, "Huh?" Roarke shook him off, then gave him a raised-eyebrow look of doubt while Leslie kept snickering helplessly.

‡ ‡ ‡

"So what happens with the contest now?" Tattoo asked, some thirty minutes later after Roarke had had a chance to wash his hands and delivered Mana'olana's warning about cleaning her domain to the chefs still working in the kitchen. "Are you gonna let Mrs. Gibbs enter another dish?"

"I think you should," Leslie said firmly. "After all, she runs a restaurant. Spinach pie can't be the only thing on her menu."

"Perhaps the spinach pie was the dish in which she had the most confidence of winning," Roarke said gently, and she sighed, deflated. "Of course, if she wishes to do so, that is entirely up to her. The judging is not till dinnertime this evening, and she still has ample time to prepare something else." He cast a glance out the windows, whose shutters had been pulled back to expose to their view the tables full of food and surrounded by contestants, judges and spectators. "However, she and Mr. Lang seem to have disappeared. They have not yet returned, have they, my friend?"

"Haven't seen or heard from them, no," Tattoo said. "Should I go find them, boss?"

Roarke considered it, aware that Tattoo in his strange eagerness was all set to take off out the door. Then he smiled. "No, I think I will. If you'd take any calls for me, Tattoo, I'd appreciate it. And Leslie, you can try to get started on that mail. You've been running around all afternoon and I think it's time you tackled a little bit of work."

"Sounds good to me. I don't want to be too tired to try all those entrées," Leslie said with a grin and settled into her chair to start sorting mail.

"No problem at all, boss," Tattoo said, apparently as eager to take a seat and watch the phone as he'd been to track down Joe and Marjorie. "I've got it all under control, you don't have a thing to worry about."

"Good," Roarke said, sounding just a little dubious, and peered closely at Tattoo for a moment before bringing himself back to the situation at hand. "Thank you both. I'll return as soon as I can."

He eventually found Joe and Marjorie in a small lagoon, watching the goose paddling around in the water and looking forlorn. "Ah, there you are, my friends!" he said and approached them. "Don't you know that the contest is about to be decided? You can still enter another dish, Mrs. Gibbs."

But Marjorie shook her head sadly and said, "We're both withdrawing, Mr. Roarke."

Astonished, Roarke stared at them, especially Joe. "Withdrawing! Well, are you convinced that it's the proper thing to do? What would your customers at the Pleasure Palate think after they paid your entry fee with their own hard-earned money, Mr. Lang?"

Marjorie brightened and tilted her head in appeal at a glum-faced Joe. "Oh, he's right! Just because I'm out of the contest doesn't mean you have to be!"

Joe seemed to be considering it; Roarke watched him before prodding encouragingly, "Mr. Lang?"

Joe capitulated at last. "We'll try it on one condition."

"What is that?" Roarke queried.

"That you keep Patty safe for us, and that we can be entered as a team." With that, Joe put an arm around Marjorie and smiled at her.

Roarke, very satisfied, concurred, "It's a deal." Joe and Marjorie hurried away to collaborate on what would now be their joint entry; Roarke smiled after them, then looked over at the goose in the lagoon, _awk_ing and dipping its beak underwater looking for tidbits. Leslie had said something at lunch about the goose-liver pâté being possibly the one thing in the entire contest she'd refuse to try, and he reflected that now she wouldn't have to worry about it. Grinning, he headed back to the main house.


	19. Chapter 19

§ § § -- September 15, 1979

Roarke gave Joe Lang and Marjorie Gibbs two hours; there was no more time to spare before the agreed-upon hour of the final judging fell. There was only one item under Joe's name in the final menu: it was barbecued spare ribs, a dish Leslie had never eaten before. "You've never had those?" Tattoo asked, amazed.

"I've had barbecued chicken and hamburgers, but never spare ribs," Leslie said. "The only ones in my family who ever ate them were my parents, and Mom usually left the lion's share to my dumb dad because there was always so much food. The bones are so big, us girls couldn't really handle them."

"Well, you're in for a treat, then," Tattoo assured her. "And since Mr. Lang's entering them in the contest, his must be especially good."

When the time came at last, it was normal suppertime for Roarke, Leslie and Tattoo; Mana'olana was working Jean-Claude's place at the hotel, so there was no regular meal, but the threesome intended to make a good meal out of the contest dishes. By now the yard beside the main house was crowded with the hopeful chefs, their various creations—in most cases more than one dish per entrant—and about two dozen vacationers who were also looking forward to a delicious meal.

In actual fact the judging had begun about half an hour before Joe and Marjorie's two-hour time allotment had elapsed. But, as they had been the last entrants to arrive on the island, so would they be the last ones to present their dish for judging. Roarke had yet to taste anything, but Leslie and Tattoo had taken samples of the items Georges Bouffetout had already judged: Peking duck (a miracle wrought by the same Chinese chef whose original version Antoine deBouvret had ruined), a rich and authentic Hungarian goulash, a Moroccan tagine, and even a bite or two of Jean-Claude's outrageous pastry castle with its chicken-drumstick turrets. Sure enough, they were covered with a thin coating of gold leaf which Leslie had unwisely tried to touch and had her hand slapped away by the ill-tempered chef as a result. "Somehow," she'd muttered to Tattoo after they'd moved on, "that thing tastes a lot worse all of a sudden." Tattoo had snickered and diverted her attention to the next item.

Finally they were nearing the end of the competition, and a huge platter was brought out to Bouffetout, containing a large and very strange green goose-shaped concoction that could only be Antoine's corruption of Marjorie's spinach pie. Leslie stared at it in disbelief. "Look what he did to it!"

"Probably in tribute to the _pâté de foie gras_ he never got to make," Tattoo noted with a little smirk.

Just then Roarke raised his voice. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, the surprise you've all been waiting for…spinach pie à la Antoine deBouvret." He gestured grandly at the ostentatious dish. Antoine loitered nearby, looking hopeful and certain of himself all at once. There was polite applause, but Tattoo and Leslie were both outraged in the wake of Roarke's announcement. _How dare that man put his name on something he didn't create!_ Leslie thought, glaring at the errant chef.

Tattoo, however, voiced his displeasure. "Boss!" he growled angrily. "The dirty rat—he stole Marge's recipe!" With that, he turned and stalked away.

Roarke stared after him, startled, and called low but insistently after him, "Tattoo—Tattoo!"

But Tattoo only threw a disgusted look over one shoulder. "Forget it, boss. The fix is in!" he snapped and continued walking.

"Well, he's right, you know," Leslie spoke up in a timid whisper. "Why can't you disqualify the creep?"

Roarke frowned at her but had no time to explain anything, for just then Bouffetout took a taste of the spinach-pie goose. Antoine waited, watching expectantly, hopeful. Then Bouffetout smiled.

"Bravo, Antoine!" gushed the critic, his praise bolstered by the sound of applause. "A classic! Well, I'm satisfied. No matter what comes now, I've tasted of the—the garden of paradise." He went for another bite while Roarke watched, looking a little grim. Then both he and Leslie heard a whistle and looked around, just in time to see Joe and Marjorie bearing a gigantic platter of Joe's special barbecued spare ribs while Tattoo watched with a big smile.

Roarke, for once letting his relief show, wasted no time. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please—a special last-minute announcement. Our contestants Mrs. Gibbs and Mr. Lang have combined their talents, and are now entered as a team." Bouffetout looked around and stared while Joe and Marjorie toted their platter over to him. Tattoo filched a small rib as they passed him and wished them luck. Leslie just heard Marjorie's thanks under the applause.

Joe and Marjorie lowered the enormous platter onto what little space was left on Bouffetout's table. "Here you are…enjoy, sir," Joe said with a little smile. "Spare ribs à la Joe and Marjorie."

Bouffetout regarded it with apparent revulsion, mixed with a tinge of horror at the sheer size of the entrée. "You must be joking," he finally said. "This looks like the leftovers from a cannibal tribe's leftovers." Nervous glances went all around; only Antoine looked decidedly smug. Bouffetout tugged at the napkin tucked into his collar. "And anyway, I've already had several full meals…"

Roarke bent to him and spoke in a low voice. "Uh, perhaps you should try a small taste. You wouldn't want to embarrass them in front of all these people! They are, after all, the final contestants."

Grudgingly Bouffetout conceded, "Very well, Roarke, but my stomach will be on your head." Leslie was still trying not to picture this absurd concept while Bouffetout made a couple of stabs at the dish before finding a small rib and trying a bite. He sat and chewed slowly for a moment, his face still; then he stared incredulously at Joe and Marjorie, with an odd but ultimately unreadable look. They all watched as Bouffetout's face subtly changed; Antoine began to shake his head as if he thought he could influence the critic. Then Bouffetout broke into an uncharacteristically beatific smile, and he dug right into his rib without another word. There was no need for any.

Roarke straightened up and beamed. "Ladies and gentlemen, there is hardly any dissent. The winner of the Fantasy Island Grand Cuisine and Cookery Contest is the team of Mrs. Gibbs and Mr. Lang."

The audience broke into applause, and Joe and Marjorie hugged each other in glee. Antoine gaped at them, horror blooming all over his face; Tattoo and Leslie made the A-OK sign at each other.

Then Antoine screamed, "Shut up! Stop!! They stole my goose! Antoine claims _foul!"_

That halted the whole procession while everyone except Bouffetout stared at him. Joe looked particularly outraged. "Foul!" he exploded incredulously.

"Yes!" Antoine yelled at him.

Joe glared. "You got a lot of nerve after what you did!"

Antoine actually had the gall to look insulted. "I! What you do not understand, _m'sieur_, is that winning meant everything to Antoine! If I had won, I could have saved my restaurant!" As he ranted, he advanced on Joe and Marjorie, who started to back away. None of the three noticed the two native men passing behind them with a large multi-tiered cake—which, of course, Marjorie wound up backing into. She tumbled flat onto her back right atop the cake, thoroughly destroying it. Exclamations rose up from the audience, and Leslie covered her mouth with one hand.

Antoine walked back toward his fellow chefs, pointing behind him at Marjorie and howling with laughter while Joe helped Marjorie to her feet. As it happened, the other chefs were laughing too, looking on at the mess. Tattoo, behind a bush with his rib, stood watching closely; Leslie sneaked a glance at Roarke, who for some reason looked amazingly unperturbed. Neither could she locate an irate chef who might have been the creator of the cake, not even Jean-Claude, who as she could see was laughing harder than anybody else, except possibly Antoine. Seeing Jean-Claude laugh was enough of an anomaly all by itself that Leslie found herself gawking at the sight, unable to look away.

Joe sauntered casually over to a dessert table, chose a pie and balanced it on his upturned palm. Then he headed for Antoine, saying, "So you think that's fancy…" And he smashed the pie in Antoine's face.

The squashing noise the pie made finally pulled Leslie's attention away from Jean-Claude, and she blinked in disbelief, then started to snicker and tried to hide it with one hand. As she stood looking on, the inevitable food fight got under way. It was almost leisurely at first, with Antoine trying to nail Joe, missing when Joe ducked and slathering another chef, and so on down the line. Roarke released a gentle sigh, then seemed to notice something and peered down at Bouffetout. The man seemed to be in his own universe, chowing down on spare ribs, totally unheeding. Roarke looked away, rolling his eyes with resignation.

Still standing near his bush with his spare rib in one hand, Tattoo chortled with glee when Marjorie got in her revenge and smothered Antoine's face with another pie. By now all the chefs were involved, including Jean-Claude, who seemed to have gotten some of the worst of it. He had lost his chef's toque and his face and white smock were dripping with cream and at least five different kinds of pie filling. Antoine wasn't in much better shape, which Leslie figured was only right, since he'd started the whole contretemps. Only she, Roarke, Tattoo and the still-oblivious Bouffetout seemed to be immune to the edible missiles; the audience just looked bewildered, though some folks were laughing.

Roarke finally happened to notice Leslie, who was now out-and-out laughing, and shook his head at her. "Leslie Susan, what am I to do with you?" he asked.

"Oh, come on, Mr. Roarke, it's fun!" she insisted.

He gave her one of those classic parental sidewise looks. "Would you think it was so much fun if you were somehow to become involved in it?" he asked.

Her laughter decreased a little, but she was still giggling even as she considered the idea. Then she shrugged and said, "Well, if I could stick my hair under a shower cap, and get into some really old clothes, I guess I wouldn't mind…"

"You sink so, you eempairteenent _petite ma'mselle, oui?" _demanded a suspiciously familiar voice from unnervingly close by. Leslie's mirth died completely as she turned with widening eyes, only to behold Jean-Claude standing perhaps two feet from her, pie at the ready. "Eef you do not weesh to be a veecteem, zen you bettair run!" He didn't wait for her response but drew his hand back to lob the pie; Leslie screamed and took to her heels.

"Tattoo!" she shrieked, fleeing straight for his bush.

"Not this way!" Tattoo shouted in panic and broke into a run of his own, with Jean-Claude in hot pursuit, laughing maniacally. Still Bouffetout ate as if he hadn't put a morsel into his mouth in a week, and Roarke threw his hands into the air and watched Jean-Claude chasing Leslie chasing Tattoo all the way around the yard. Tattoo managed to escape by detouring onto the porch, but poor Leslie finally ran out of luck as she tried to duck around the chef from Budapest. The man grabbed her arm, arresting her flight, and Jean-Claude had a clear shot, which he promptly took advantage of. Two seconds later Leslie was dripping with meringue and sticky lemon filling, and both the Hungarian chef and Jean-Claude were roaring with laughter, pointing at her. Jean-Claude was even slapping his thighs with glee.

Roarke watched with amazement as his usually timid, shy ward twisted around, snatched up a huge basket of fruit and began hurling the contents at the suddenly shocked Jean-Claude with all her strength, shouting, "Take _that!_ And _that!"_ with every fruit she threw. Jean-Claude stumbled away, trying to shield his head, yelling incoherently in French. Some people started applauding, and Roarke turned to see several tables full of spectators cheering Leslie on.

One of them noticed his surprised scrutiny and grinned. "We saw that crazy chef do what he did to that poor kid," he said. "I hope he's black and blue all over when she finishes with him!" Roarke blinked once or twice, then abruptly burst out laughing.

§ § § -- September 17, 1979

Sunday had been mostly a rest period for them all, after the stress and wild events of Saturday; Leslie had spent half the day trying to wash the remnants of lemon meringue out of her hair, after her initial scrubbing on Saturday night had for some reason failed to remove all of it. "My hair'll never be the same again," she had complained to Roarke late that afternoon.

"Who knows, perhaps lemon meringue is good for the hair," Roarke suggested teasingly, and had laughed heartily at her dirty look. Fortunately, Leslie had eventually managed to see the funny side of it, and now on Monday morning was actually looking forward to telling her friends about it at school.

Joe and Marjorie stepped out of a jeep at the plane dock; to Leslie's surprise, Joe was carrying the goose, which apparently was going home with him and Marjorie. Roarke smiled warmly at them. "Well, I hope your stay with us was a pleasant one."

"Oh, it certainly was," Marjorie assured him, stroking the goose.

Joe grinned. "Yeah. You gave us two fantasies for the price of one."

"Two fantasies?" Tattoo asked blankly.

"Yeah," said Joe, looking just slightly sheepish, "I've always wanted to participate in one of those pie-throwing fights."

"Me too!" agreed Marjorie.

Leslie gaped. "You're kidding!" Joe and Marjorie both shook their heads, grinning sympathetically at her; they had seen what Jean-Claude had done.

Laughing, Roarke observed, "Oh, and I would say that Patty's health seems much improved!"

Marjorie nodded proudly. "Yes, and I'm keeping her on a strict no-junk-food diet."

Joe put in then, "If you ever get up to Trenton, New Jersey, will you look us up?"

"We will, we will!" Tattoo assured him. And with that, goodbyes were exchanged; even Patty the goose squawked in seeming farewell, making them laugh again.

After the Rawlinses had made their farewells and departed, Tattoo inexplicably went back to the flattery he'd been showering Roarke with all weekend. "Boss, you know what? You're really the greatest!"

Roarke, still riding the emotional lift he got every weekend from having satisfied a few more guests, beamed at him. "Really, Tattoo? In what way?"

"In every way!" Tattoo insisted. "You make so many people so happy!"

"Well, that's the business I'm in," said Roarke with a stab at modesty.

"But you do it so well," Tattoo said, and Roarke smiled and murmured something in response. But Leslie was already suspicious, for Tattoo was really laying it on thick. About to demand he spill the beans, she was foiled when Tattoo looked at Roarke's shoes and exclaimed, "Uh-oh!"

"What's wrong?" Roarke asked.

"Nothing that I cannot fix," Tattoo said confidently. "Wait." He whistled at a native girl, who brought him a shoeshine kit. "Thank you. All right, boss." Swiftly Tattoo extracted a brush from the box and dropped the latter item on the ground in front of Roarke. "Put your foot there." Roarke eyed him with faintly narrowed eyes, but complied; and Tattoo began briskly whisking the brush over Roarke's shoe, whistling.

"Tattoo…I'm getting suspicious again," Roarke said in mild warning. He removed his foot from the box, making Tattoo straighten up in protest.

"Boss, stand still!" the young Frenchman scolded. "I'm gonna make your shoes look like they were new!"

But Roarke had had it. "All right, Tattoo, this is it. I insist that you explain why you are still attempting to kill me with kindness! You pinned a boutonniere on me, brought my slippers, tried to light my pipe—which I no longer smoke—feather-dusted me, shined my shoes, and I don't know what all—why, why, why??"

Tattoo stared at him as if he were dense. "Boss, don't you get it?"

Exasperated, Roarke shot back, "No, I most certainly do not 'get it'!"

Tattoo, frowning, dug into a pocket and extracted a torn page therefrom. "Well, it's because of this newspaper article. The ad you put in it." He handed it to Roarke, who squinted at it and read it aloud while Leslie looked on curiously and Tattoo stood there whistling.

" 'Wanted: assistant manager'," Roarke read. Then comprehension crossed his face, and he smiled and addressed his assistant. "Tattoo…"

"Yes, boss?" came the reply between whistles.

Roarke stared at him, surprise and amusement mingling on his features. "Tattoo, did you think that—oh, now, that's impossible!"

"That's all right, boss, say it. I can take it." But Leslie wasn't convinced he could.

By now Roarke was grinning outright. "Tattoo, are you under the impression that I was planning to—"

Tattoo whirled around, suddenly outraged. "Fire me? That's what you wanted to do?"

Roarke broke in: "Listen to me, Tattoo, now listen." Tattoo only turned away, offended. "It is true that I placed an ad for an assistant manager, that's true. But it was for the hotel!"

Tattoo froze, stared at nothing for a moment, then looked around cautiously. "Hotel?"

"Yes!" exclaimed Roarke, half laughing. Leslie looked on, a sense of relief shafting through her as well; she had had no idea Roarke had placed the ad, but she could understand Tattoo's misinterpretation.

Tattoo ventured warily, "You mean you're not gonna fire me?"

Cheerfully Roarke assured him, "The day I fire you, my dear Tattoo, will be the day that birds no longer fly."

"Oh, boss! Thank you so much!" But Tattoo hadn't even finished the sentence when a pigeon tumbled out of the sky and landed beside the shoeshine kit, as if blown there by a rogue gust of wind. They all, even Roarke, stared in surprise.

"Where'd _he_ come from?" Leslie asked, tempted to try to pet the bird but restraining herself.

Tattoo suddenly looked alarmed, for the bird just sat there cooing. Shooting a desperate glance at Roarke, Tattoo nudged the pigeon with one foot and hissed urgently, "Hey, shoo…come on, fly. What're you waiting for? Come on, fly!" The bird didn't budge.

Despite himself, Roarke started to grin, and Leslie collapsed into chortles. Finally Tattoo gave up on the stubborn bird and eyed Roarke sheepishly, making Roarke start to laugh as well. The two men shook hands and then both hugged Leslie.

§ § § -- April 6, 2006

Julie looked mournful. "What a waste of perfectly good food!" she lamented, rolling her eyes theatrically. "As a food-o-phile, I have to lodge an official protest, uncle."

"Ach, lass, what're you bellyachin' about? Seems to me Leslie had more of a reason to complain, being unfairly attacked by that old codger of a chef when all she was doing was chattin' with uncle," Rogan remarked, grinning at Leslie.

Christian, laughing, nodded. "You and that man apparently never got along, did you?"

"Not till after the driving accident he claimed I caused," she said, chuckling and hoisting Karina up farther onto her lap. "And I'm sorry to say, just for the record, that I had really crummy aim. I must have had five pineapples and half a dozen oranges in that basket, not to mention a bunch of bananas and even some apples. There were mangoes, kiwifruit, papaya and I don't know what else in that basket—it was so heavy I could barely keep a grip on it, but I was furious enough to manage it. Problem was, as I said, I had bad aim. I think I hit Jean-Claude only once for every four or five things I threw."

Christian laughed harder and shook his head. "My poor Rose," he teased gently. "At least you had a chance to vent your rage on him. Now, you were saying something about a wine competition, Mr. Roarke."

"Yes, that took place only a few months later, just before Christmas," Roarke said. "We needed something a little lighthearted, due to all the traumatic events we had experienced just the month before." He and Leslie exchanged a look, both remembering that it had been the year of Roarke's brief marriage and Tattoo's near-quitting over an aspiring country singer being egged on by her pushy aunt. "Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, we did in fact get some comic relief out of the situation."


	20. Chapter 20

§ § § -- December 22, 1979

Their first disembarking guest that weekend was a complete surprise to both Roarke and Leslie; Roarke said in perplexity, "This is most peculiar." Leslie saw Tattoo's eyes slide off to one side in a faintly guilty motion and wondered what he knew, while Roarke pinned Tattoo with an expectant frown. "I don't recall a nun asking for a fantasy." He must have seen Tattoo's expression, for he asked, "Do you know her, Tattoo?"

"Her name is Sister Veronica," Tattoo explained. "She comes from California. You see, she runs a convent school, and also a vineyard. Sister Veronica needed a teeny-weeny favor, and you were so busy, I thought—"

Roarke broke in sardonically, "You thought you would do me a favor and handle her 'teeny-weeny' fantasy by your teeny-weeny self." Leslie let out a startled laugh at the unexpected remark.

Tattoo, though, seemed to let it wash right over him. "Right, boss. You're not mad at me, are you?"

"That," Roarke hedged, "will depend largely on the sister's fantasy."

"Oh, it's a piece of cake," Tattoo said with expansive confidence. "Her convent is going broke, and the people in the valley are poor. So—"

"Let me see if I can guess the rest," Roarke interrupted. "The sister's fantasy is to pay her debts and provide jobs for all the people in her valley by winning the gold medal in the Fantasy Island Wine-Tasting Contest, huh?"

Tattoo beamed. "You got it!"

"But some of the finest wine-growers in the world are entered in the contest, my friend. How can you be sure the sister's vintage is good enough to compete?"

"Boss! This is Fantasy Island! Everything is possible!" Tattoo exclaimed, and Roarke shot him an annoyed look, then cast a glance at Leslie.

"Nothing to say?" he asked.

"Déjà vu, that's all," she said. "It's like the cooking contest back in September."

"Indeed," Roarke concurred, and with one last look at Tattoo proceeded to introduce their other guest, then toasted the new arrivals while Leslie wondered thoughtfully how Tattoo's latest attempt to grant a fantasy would turn out this time.

‡ ‡ ‡

Having seen their first guest, one Harry Simpson, into his fantasy, Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie met back at the main house, where the side yard was full of tables, just as it had been with the cooking competition three months before. However, the atmosphere this time was much more refined, more worldly and sophisticated, making fourteen-year-old Leslie feel decidedly backward and childish—not to mention intimidated. She hadn't been enthusiastic about this contest at all, since she wasn't nearly old enough to drink as yet; but Roarke had suggested that she could have the occasional sip of wine from time to time, in lieu of a full glass, so that she didn't feel entirely left out and could still help with the fantasies. Since Harry Simpson's fantasy involved meeting his exact double, who was a wealthy professional gambler with a life too often lived on the edge, both she and Roarke felt that Sister Veronica's fantasy was a better choice for her to be involved in.

So she was with Roarke, Tattoo and the nun at a table near the porch steps, where Tattoo proudly showed off a vintage from his own small collection. "I brought this wine myself," he said, "all the way from France. _Les Petits Sorelles."_ He showed them the label. "And when you taste it, you will see how the sister's wine is gonna be."

As he poured glasses for himself and Roarke, Leslie asked the nun, "Is your wine a burgundy too?"

"It's in the same style, yes," Sister Veronica replied with a smile. "If Tattoo thinks our wine is as good as this one, then I'm sure I'll have a good chance at winning."

Roarke waved his wine glass in circles before his face, then regarded the nun. "A fine nose," he said, impressed.

"Our grapevines are the same root stock as one of the finest wines in France," said Sister Veronica, "_Les Petits Sorelles_—the Burgundy of the Little Sisters." Tattoo took a generous sip, then smiled broadly; Roarke followed suit while Leslie looked on. Then Roarke, too, smiled.

"Magnificent," he exclaimed. "Truly a magnificent wine, sister! If your Santa Rosarita wine tastes anything like its French cousin here…" He sniffed the wine in his glass. "Then you have an excellent chance of winning the contest, Sister!"

"You can say that again," Tattoo remarked enthusiastically; then his attention was diverted by a pretty young woman toting a glass of wine, who paused to smile at Roarke. Roarke in turn cleared his throat sharply at Tattoo, who reluctantly subsided with a sheepish look on his round face, and the woman sauntered on. Roarke offered Leslie a small sip of the wine in his glass, and she stood holding it in her mouth for so long that he began to smile with amusement.

"Is something wrong with it?" he asked.

She swallowed. "Well, for wine, I guess it tastes pretty good," she said, shrugging at him and the chuckling Sister Veronica. "I mean, I'm only fourteen, and I don't come from winemakers…"

"Ah, you'll have many years to learn about the various wines from around the world," Sister Veronica assured her. "If Mr. Roarke's willing to teach you, of course."

"Of course." Roarke chuckled. "I'll give you the chance to take a tiny sample of several different wines in the contest, so that you'll begin to understand the differences between vintages." At that point two white-haired, distinguished-looking men stopped by their table; Roarke introduced them as two of the judges, and poured each of them a small amount of the burgundy. Leslie, left on the sidelines this time, watched them test the wine just as Roarke had done. One of the judges engaged Sister Veronica in conversation, in which Roarke participated, while Tattoo left the bottle on the table and went off to get another for them to enjoy with lunch later.

Then she saw a movement behind the other judge and found herself peering at a nerdy-looking young man in a blue suit with a brick-red polka-dotted bow tie, who strolled up to the judge and tapped him on the shoulder. "Pardon me, do you have the time?" he asked.

Unthinkingly the judge tipped his wrist—the one attached to the hand holding his wine glass, Leslie saw—and to her astonishment, as the wine poured out, the blue-suited young man deftly caught it with a glass of his own. He then patted the judge on the back, said, "Never mind," and departed with the wine glass, leaving the startled judge trying to figure out where his wine had gone. Leslie stared after the fellow in the blue suit and wondered what that little performance had been all about.

She wondered whether she should say anything to Roarke, but he had offered Sister Veronica a glass which she refused. It seemed a strange, though ultimately harmless, interlude, and she finally decided not to bother her guardian with it. But the episode stuck with her for some reason.

‡ ‡ ‡

They had lunch; then Roarke and Leslie retreated to the study afterwards, where Leslie tried to write another page of a school report on the obscure small country of Lilla Jordsö for her social-studies class while Roarke took the opportunity to read a little. Less than an hour later Tattoo came in with Sister Veronica, who said, "Oh, Mr. Roarke, I hope I'm not interrupting anything important…"

"Oh, not at all, Sister. Please come in," Roarke invited, and Veronica stepped into the study with Tattoo right behind her. He arose to meet the nun near the foyer steps; Leslie took a last rueful glance at her report, which wasn't coming along too well, and set it aside, glad for the distraction.

"Is your bungalow to your satisfaction?" Roarke inquired.

"Lovely, thank you," Sister Veronica said delightedly, beaming at him. Leslie could see now that she was carrying a wine bottle, and approached her guardian, wondering if he'd give her just a little taste of this as well. The nun continued, "As an additional thanks, I would like you to have some of our Santa Rosarita burgundy. The least I can do is replace the bottle of its cousin from France that Tattoo donated." She handed Tattoo the bottle as Roarke chuckled and Leslie smiled.

"I'll get some glasses—be right back," Tattoo offered and headed down to the kitchen with the bottle.

Roarke smiled. "You are most generous, Sister."

"Oh no, you and Tattoo are the generous ones. By fulfilling my fantasy, my wine will win the gold medal, and you will bring happiness and opportunity to hundreds of needy and deserving families—and save our convent."

"Ah…I must caution you on your optimism, Sister," Roarke advised. "You haven't won that gold medal yet."

"Oh, but I'm sure it will all work out right, Mr. Roarke. I believe that absolutely," Sister Veronica said, her face wreathed in smiles. Behind the nun's back, Leslie caught Roarke's eye and shrugged at him; he only smiled at her, knowing she was well aware that this fantasy was as likely to have its pratfalls as just about every other one he granted.

Tattoo returned with the wine and a tray of glasses. "Well, here we are!" He set the tray down on a small round game table that stood near the stairs, and remarked with a grin, "At least this time we don't have to share it with a bunch of people."

"That's right," Roarke said, chuckling.

"Well, I think I'm going to take a little nap," Sister Veronica decided, to their surprise. "It's been a long trip. You see, I don't drink. But I do want you to enjoy the wine."

"All right, Sister," Roarke agreed, and escorted her out while Tattoo poured out some of the wine and Leslie stood nearby watching him. Roarke set his book onto the table in the inner foyer and came back to join them; Tattoo handed him a glass, his face a study in anticipation.

"Boss," he said cheerfully, "down the hatch!"

Leslie burst out laughing and Roarke grinned, thanking Tattoo. They each took a sip—foregoing the business of "smelling" the wine, Leslie noticed—and tested it in their mouths…and then both froze, expressions of pure revulsion stealing across their faces. Tattoo looked almost as if he were about to be sick; he gulped unwillingly, then began to cough, his eyes popping. Roarke whipped out a handkerchief and covered his mouth with it, looking none too healthy himself. Leslie gaped at them. "What's the matter?" she demanded, astonished.

Tattoo could barely speak. "This wine is the _pits!"_ he choked out, still coughing.

Roarke held up a hand, as if to declaim, and pronounced direly, "Without a doubt, the most abominable beverage I have ever tasted." He set down the glass and stared at the wine label. "The original bottle from France was excellent, but this is…terrible!"

"Boss," Tattoo exclaimed worriedly, "Sister Veronica can't win the gold medal with this bilge! What are we gonna do?"

Roarke's face acquired a sardonic smile. "You," he said, pointedly emphasizing the word, "guaranteed her fantasy, my friend. I don't know what you will do, but—" His expression shifted suddenly and he lifted the handkerchief once more. "And I don't know what I'm going to do, either." So saying, he left the room at a brisk clip, no doubt heading for the downstairs bathroom…just in case.

Tattoo stared in consternation at the wine bottle and then at Leslie. "I better come up with something fast," he muttered, looking on the edge of panic.

Leslie lifted Roarke's abandoned glass, and Tattoo lunged instinctively at her. "Leslie, what are you doing?" he blurted out.

"I'm not going to taste it," she said, making a face. "Just smell it." She took several deep breaths, but all she could get from it was the sharply sour grape odor that she'd gleaned from the first wine earlier.

"Not like that," Tattoo said. "This way." He picked up his own glass and waved it before his face, under his nose and a few inches away, in several gentle circles. She watched dubiously.

"How come you have to go through that rigmarole?" she wanted to know. "Wine's a drink like anything else. Nobody treats fruit juice that way, or cocktails."

Tattoo rolled his eyes. "That's because wine is a special drink," he said severely. "It's different from every other drink in the world. It's grown from scratch and made with tender loving care."

She snorted. "I bet you'd find any number of beer drinkers and brewers who'd say the exact same thing."

"Bah," Tattoo scoffed. "Beer's one thing, wine's another. Beer is for the common man. Wine is for the sophisticated palate." The words came out with an unconsciously pretentious flavor that made Leslie grin derisively, but she gave up and stopped protesting.

"All right, all right," she said grudgingly. "Show me that circle-waving thing again." Tattoo demonstrated how to move the wine glass near her face, and she stood there mimicking his actions, feeling very foolish but figuring it was the easiest way to appease him.

But, to her surprise, it seemed to work. She got more from this sniff test than just the sour-grape smell that overwhelmed her nostrils. There was something else in it, something that even her pathetic inexperience knew should not have been there. "It smells like some kind of…" She groped for the proper description and finally came up with, "Chemical."

Tattoo closed his eyes and groaned. _"Sacre bleu._ Just what I need. And wait till Sister Veronica hears about it. What a disaster!"

It took Roarke about fifteen minutes to return, by which time Tattoo had poured the rest of the wine down the sink in the kitchen and given the glasses to the staff there for washing. "I see you're working very hard on finding a solution to your problem," he remarked, with a trace of sarcasm.

Tattoo gave him a pained look, and Leslie sighed. "Come on, Mr. Roarke," she pleaded, "give him a break. How was he supposed to know Sister Veronica's wine tasted so rotten?"

"Did you try it yourself?" Roarke asked, turning to her with surprise.

"No, but Tattoo showed me that wine-sniffing ritual you went through this morning, and I got the idea. It smells to me like there's some weird chemical in it. But that's not Tattoo's fault."

"Perhaps not, but…" Roarke began.

"Oh, please, Mr. Roarke," she wheedled. "He's just trying to help her and all those people in her valley. You're a diplomat. You have a way with words—you always know just the right thing to say. Couldn't you help Tattoo out a little bit and maybe break the bad news to Sister Veronica for him?"

Roarke stared at her in disbelief. "Leslie Susan Hamilton, what on earth—" he began.

"Please?" she begged, actually clasping her hands together in front of her. "I mean, look at poor Tattoo, he's racking his brain trying to figure out what he's going to do about it. He doesn't have a lot of time to come up with a solution to this mess. The least you could do is help him out a little bit by telling Sister Veronica about her wine, so he can work on finding a way around this thing and she at least knows what's happening."

Roarke gaped at her in amazement. "You shameless little manipulator!" he exclaimed, but his dark eyes had begun to twinkle with amusement. "I had no idea you had it in you, young lady. Where did you get that ability?" Leslie merely maintained her plaintive, hopeful gaze, and he rolled his eyes and relented at last. "I am surrounded by conspirators. Very well, just this once." He turned on Tattoo, whose face had lit up at his capitulation. "But you'd better not make her a liar, my friend." With that, he departed the house.

"You are a lifesaver," Tattoo said with enormous gratitude when he'd left. "What can I do to pay you back?"

She thought it over, then grinned. "Oh, I'll come up with something. But right now I think you better start that brain-racking I mentioned to Mr. Roarke. Otherwise I _will_ end up looking like a liar." She gave him a mock-threatening look. "And if I do, well…"

"Brat," Tattoo said affectionately. "Okay, I'm going. You better get to work on that report of yours. Do something constructive while you're waiting for the boss to get back." She stuck out her tongue at him, and he chuckled and hurried out while she settled in her chair and tried to concentrate on the principal exports of Lilla Jordsö. _Wonder if one of them is wine, _she thought whimsically.


	21. Chapter 21

§ § § -- December 22, 1979

Roarke hadn't been looking forward to breaking the bad news to Sister Veronica, but he'd known it couldn't be avoided; she had to know. But as he'd taken the leisurely walk to call on her (the long way around, of course), he'd been stricken with an idea that he had great hopes for. Perhaps he didn't have to burst Sister Veronica's bubble just yet. He fine-tuned the plan through the rest of his walk, so that it was ready by the time he knocked on her bungalow door. A moment later she answered, lighting up at sight of him. "Oh, it's you, Mr. Roarke! Won't you come in?"

"Thank you, Sister," Roarke said and stepped in as she closed the door behind them.

"I had a lovely nap," she said cheerfully. "I do hope that you and Tattoo enjoyed my wine?"

"Oh…it was an unforgettable experience, Sister Veronica," he said as tactfully as he could manage. "That's precisely why I've come to see you. After sampling your, um…wine…" _If it can be called that,_ ran through his head, but he squelched the thought and focused on the eager nun. "…I came to a very firm business decision. I would like to purchase your entire stock of Santa Rosarita burgundy now, before the judging takes place. I, of course, would pay fair market price."

Sister Veronica lit up. "I see. Then you believe that the outcome of the competition will affect the price of my wine."

"Oh, I do, Sister, I do. I…I expect to make a fortune!" He chuckled a little nervously, but she seemed lost in her own ruminations and didn't appear to notice.

"And," she mused, pacing thoughtfully away from him, "if I should fail to win the gold medal, then the market price of my wine would drop…and you could lose a great deal of money, couldn't you?" She turned back to him, concern all over her kindly face.

"Uh, well…yes, yes, but…that's a gamble I'm willing to take," Roarke assured her. Better he lose money than that the sister's fantasy should come to such an ignominious end. He could afford it in the end. _And perhaps I could try to sell it for some other purpose, _he thought unexpectedly, _such as motorcycle fuel…_ Again he stifled his train of thought and smiled broadly at Sister Veronica.

Then she said, "No, no, Mr. Roarke. I appreciate your generous offer, and I know you're only trying to safeguard my interests—" He started to protest, but she approached him and insisted earnestly, "It's not necessary! As I told you before, I have perfect faith."

"But Sister—" Roarke tried again.

"Don't worry, Mr. Roarke," she entreated, grasping his hands between hers and smiling serenely. "All will be well!" She patted his hands a few times and released him, leaving him standing there with his hands pressed together as if in prayer. He chuckled with her, then noticed the position of his hands and pulled them apart, shooting a wry glance skyward. It would take a lot more than the hope of divine intervention to pull this off, he realized. Worse than that, ultimately, he just hadn't been able to bring himself to tell Sister Veronica the truth. What an example to set for his ward…

‡ ‡ ‡

"You realize this isn't very honest, don't you?" Leslie whispered to Tattoo as they walked through the dark, quiet town square. They were headed into the pedestrian section where their guests, fantasizers and vacationers alike, bought their souvenirs; there was a wine shop located here, and they were on their way to its cellar, where the wines that had been entered in the competition were being stored till the judging took place. Tattoo was toting a bottle of _Les Petits Sorelles_, and Leslie had accompanied him, very surprised when Roarke had unexpectedly agreed to let her go out this late. She had been wondering if there were something on his mind, but hadn't asked, figuring it must be business.

"It's the best I could come up with," Tattoo whispered back. "Stop acting like a thief in the night, will you? Just trust me and do as I do." She sighed but gave in, and they approached the guard—a member of the local constabulary—who stood on duty a few feet from the door to the wine cellar.

"Hi," said Tattoo. "We'd like to go in and take a look around."

"Of course, Mr. Tattoo," the guard said with a smile, and he gestured Tattoo and Leslie on toward the door. Tattoo strolled nonchalantly in, let Leslie in after him and closed the door; he pulled his suit jacket tighter around him when the chill of the cellar hit them, and Leslie hugged herself, rubbing her hands along her arms.

"Is it supposed to be that cold in here?" she mumbled and followed Tattoo down the steps. Raising her voice, she said, "Tell me again why we're doing this, just to refresh my memory."

"I've gotta make sure the sister's wine wins," Tattoo reminded her patiently. "If I'd had more time, I might've thought of something else, but the judging's tomorrow. This is the only way."

"Right," she said on a resigned rush of air. She paused behind Tattoo, watching him run his finger down a posted list of the wines in the contest. Shortly he located it under the section headed _Burgundy_. "Now what?" she asked, shivering a little.

"You don't have to do anything," he said. "Just wait there and let me know if you hear anybody coming." She nodded, a pensive look crossing her face, and hovered at the wall near the list of wines while he dragged a stepstool to the wine racks, climbed onto it, located the bottle of Santa Rosarita burgundy that was stored in its designated slot, and removed it. He then set about opening both wine bottles while she looked on, ears open, straining for any suspicious noises and wondering what was going to happen after Tattoo was finished with his tampering.

§ § § -- December 23, 1979

It seemed nobody had really slept much the previous night. Leslie was still afraid Tattoo's little game of musical wines would be uncovered, and Roarke clearly had something on his mind. This time Tattoo noticed it as well, and he and Leslie looked at each other before he asked, "Boss, are you okay?"

Roarke looked up as if surprised. "Is there some reason I shouldn't be?"

"You just look preoccupied," said Leslie. "You looked like that last night too."

"Did I?" murmured Roarke, contemplating the newspaper that lay near his plate.

"You're doing it again," Tattoo and Leslie chorused at him.

Roarke sighed and glanced at Tattoo, then focused on Leslie. "I thought I would try to find a better way out of the dilemma," he said. "I went to Sister Veronica yesterday as you asked…but I offered to buy her entire stock of wine, rather than telling her the truth."

She stared at him in amazement. "You did?"

Roarke nodded. "However, Sister Veronica refused. She has complete faith that her wine is going to win this contest. Faith in _you_, Tattoo." This he directed at his assistant; but Tattoo was unruffled.

"Well, I don't think we have anything to worry about, boss," he said, while Leslie suddenly shifted her attention to her plate and started to demolish her breakfast. "I've got it all taken care of."

"Do you indeed?" inquired Roarke with interest, without missing the way Leslie concentrated on her food.

"Sure do," said Tattoo with a smile. "Those judges aren't gonna know what hit 'em."

"You can say that again," mumbled Leslie through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. Roarke and Tattoo both looked at her, and she lifted her gaze for a second or two, shrugged, then returned to her eating.

To her relief, Roarke let the subject drop; she supposed he figured that it was Tattoo's problem in the end, thus the solution was entirely up to Tattoo and none of his concern. He refrained from mentioning the subject any further, even more than two hours later when the judging of the wines finally got under way in the side yard. "And now, to complete the preliminary judging, we have the burgundy of the convent of Santa Rosarita." The rather pompous-looking and -sounding head judge behind the table containing the wines proceeded to pour out a quantity of the contents of the bottle of Santa Rosarita that Tattoo had tinkered with the night before. Leslie compressed her lips; Tattoo looked on with a smile, Roarke looked worried and confused, and Sister Veronica wore a delighted, anticipatory grin.

Silence reigned, except for the chirping of birds, while the three judges sniffed the wine, sampled it, and looked at one another with dignified smiles of approval. Leslie sneaked a glance at Roarke and saw his face morph into a mask of pure bewilderment.

The head judge raised the bottle. "We are unanimous. The wine of Santa Rosarita is superb in all particulars." Tattoo and Sister Veronica beamed; Roarke stared in disbelief, and Leslie stood there wrestling with her conscience. The judge continued, "It will now move on to the finals against the entry of the Fernandel Winery." Restrained applause broke out; nearby, the nerdy young man Leslie had seen early yesterday stood beside an imperious-looking middle-aged woman wearing an expensive blue dress, and an anxious mustachioed older man in a double-breasted suit. They nudged each other and muttered frenetically among themselves. Leslie wondered if they were anything to worry about.

"Well," said Sister Veronica, diverting Leslie's attention, "now that we have reached the first plateau, I must say I'm very relieved."

"How about it, boss?" Tattoo inquired, beaming from ear to ear. "Surprised?"

"I am puzzled," said Roarke, frowning. "Deeply puzzled." He glanced at the nun. "If you'll excuse us, Sister…Tattoo, a word with you, if you please?" He looked up at Leslie, whose instinctive reaction clearly gave her away. "You too, young lady." He beckoned at them, and they traded uneasy glances and trailed him back to the main house.

In the study Roarke faced the two of them, standing before his desk as if facing a firing squad. "You'd better come clean," he advised sternly. "Both of you."

Tattoo and Leslie looked at each other; Tattoo frowned, but Roarke's frown scared her more, and she caved in first. "I just went as the lookout, Mr. Roarke," she said pleadingly. "Tattoo had an idea that would help save Sister Veronica's fantasy."

"And that was?" prompted Roarke when she fell silent.

She studiously avoided Tattoo's disgusted look. "He took in a bottle of his French burgundy and switched it out for that liquid chemical stuff in the Santa Rosarita bottle."

"Ah," said Roarke, folding his arms over his chest and shifting his regard to Tattoo. "Now it all becomes clear. Really, Tattoo, did you think you had to resort to such chicanery to make the sister's fantasy work out?"

Tattoo looked mutinous. "Well, boss, do you really want to know the truth? It was the only thing I could come up with on such short notice. And you weren't going to help—after all, you said the fantasy was mine to grant, since I took it on in the first place. I needed someone to watch out for anybody who might come in while I was…switching the wines, so I had Leslie come with me."

"I see you didn't think of asking her if she might be able to come up with any ideas," Roarke noted.

"Well, I couldn't think of anything either," Leslie admitted, shamefaced. "I spent our whole walk into town trying to, Mr. Roarke. I mean…I didn't want Tattoo getting caught, but I just couldn't figure out a better idea. So he had to go with the one he had."

Roarke slowly shook his head. "My friend, I realize your intentions were good, but the execution left more than a little to be desired. And, considering that you have now managed to successfully fool the judges into thinking your burgundy was actually Sister Veronica's, I think it best if you come clean now—to the sister—before things get any further out of hand."

"But boss!" Tattoo protested, aghast. "What about Sister Veronica's fantasy?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. First things first. Both of you, come with me—we're going to pay a little call on our unsuspecting guest."

At Sister Veronica's bungalow, Roarke requested that she take a seat and drew in a breath, rounding her chair and watching Tattoo and Leslie expectantly. "Sister Veronica," he said, "I'm afraid Tattoo has a small confession to make."

"Oh?" said the nun, looking curious. But Tattoo looked away, like a chastened child, and held his silence; Leslie stood staring at the floor, fearing that if Tattoo didn't own up to what he'd done, she'd be the one Roarke insisted tell Sister Veronica what had happened.

"Well?" Roarke finally demanded, but Tattoo still didn't say anything, and Roarke turned to the nun, to Leslie's relief. "Well, it seems that he exchanged one bottle of his French burgundy for one of yours." Tattoo looked chastened, yet rebellious at the same time.

"He did what?" Sister Veronica said, perplexed. Leslie looked up and winced at her confused look. The nun appealed to Tattoo: "Why?"

Finally Tattoo spoke. "Because your wine is the pits," he said bluntly. Roarke shot him a look, and Leslie made the mistake of trying too late to stifle a giggle; he gave her a very stern glare, and she felt her face turning crimson. "I'm sorry," Tattoo said, "but it's the truth."

"I'm afraid so, Sister," Roarke confirmed when she looked at him.

Sister Veronica admitted, "Well, I wouldn't know, because of course I've never tasted it…but I did have them follow the recipe exactly." This last she addressed to Tattoo, who looked rather mournful. "And of course, the root stock is the same, so how could it be?"

"Climate," said Roarke sympathetically, "soil conditions…there are many variables which might account for the failure of your wine at Santa Rosarita."

Sister Veronica looked at Tattoo, who nodded, then at Leslie, who bit her lip, and then at Roarke, suddenly looking philosophical. "Don't worry," she said, to their amazement. "We still have the final judging. I'm confident that everything will work out to fulfill my fantasy one way or another."

As she spoke, they had been moving towards the door; now they paused and Roarke turned back to usher Leslie out beside him. Then Sister Veronica admonished gently, "But…Tattoo, no more pranks! Things will right themselves without trickery. Believe…just…believe!" With every word she bent a little farther over, and Roarke unconsciously followed suit, surprise on his face. Tattoo didn't look too certain, and Leslie couldn't see how anything could work out now. But the nun beamed and nodded; Tattoo turned away, Roarke abruptly straightened, and Tattoo came out the door, pulling it shut behind him.

"Nobody in all the world is more optimistic than a nun," said Leslie.

Roarke had to laugh. "Perhaps so, Leslie. Well, come along, we have other things to worry about."

"_You_ have other things to worry about," Tattoo said with a heavy sigh. "Looks like I've blown it."

"Oh, don't be in such a hurry to brand this venture a failure, my friend!" Roarke said, smiling. "The weekend is not over yet, and neither is the judging. Let's just wait and see how things work out. Although I do have an idea. Leslie, tell me again what you think you smelled in that wine."

"Some kind of chemical odor," she told him. "I can't be any more specific than that. Didn't you and Tattoo taste it when you tried it?"

"I'm afraid we were so overwhelmed by this…uh, 'chemical' you refer to, that we didn't think to analyze its origin," Roarke observed wryly, and she laughed as Tattoo made a gargoyle face at the mere memory. "Perhaps it's possible to look into the reason for that. I'm going to make a few phone calls and see if I can find out some things, and then I must go to the casino. Leslie, what of your report?"

"I need help," she grumbled. "I'm stuck on what Lilla Jordsö exports. So far it looks like they don't export anything! I wonder how they survive?"

Roarke laughed. "Then my suggestion is that you visit the library and start looking for books about the country. Tattoo, I'll need you to handle any business at the house while Leslie and I are doing our respective research. I have a feeling we all have quite a bit to learn."


	22. Chapter 22

§ § § -- December 23, 1979

Leslie had been fortunate enough to find a slender volume about Lilla Jordsö in the island library; to be honest, it was geared toward schoolchildren a few years younger than she was, but it was all she could find. However, it was only a couple of years old and filled with pictures of the little island country; she had found that it was four or five times the size of Fantasy Island, and actually had its own ruling family, like the other Scandinavian countries. She had spent a good hour in the library jotting down notes of all sorts, but had been amazed to find out that its only export was a kind of fish she had never heard of, silver-speckled trout. Further reading said this fish was found only in Lilla Jordsö and therefore fetched a high price on the European seafood market, but was unavailable anywhere else in the world due to overfishing encroaching on the stocks. _I guess I'll never get to try it, then, _Leslie thought with a mental shrug.

She did learn, to her surprise, that Lilla Jordsö—being too far north to facilitate much grape-growing—made wines from other fruits, especially apples. _I ought to tell Mr. Roarke—he could send invitations to the places that make that wine, and they could enter next year's contest! _she thought, grinning to herself. She'd love to try apple wine; for some reason it sounded less sour than grape wine. She went from there to making notes on the assorted foods eaten by the country's people, statistics on human population, GDP, domestic-animal populations, cities and major towns, provinces, location of the royal castle, military information, and even the geological makeup of the land. She was just writing down Lilla Jordsö's size in kilometers when she saw a shadow fall over her notebook and looked up to see Roarke there.

"Hi, Mr. Roarke," she said.

He smiled. "It seems you've gathered a great deal of information."

"This was the only decent book the library had," she admitted, displaying the cover at him, "but I guess it was all I really needed. Did you know they make apple wine in Lilla Jordsö? We should find out the names of the wineries and send them invitations to next year's contest."

Roarke laughed softly. "I'll keep that in mind. It's time to go, the final judging is in less than half an hour and we must be there. Why don't you check out that book and bring it home with you."

She agreed, and within thirty minutes they were in the side yard at the main house, watching the judges as they tested wines in other categories and made final decisions. Eventually the head judge got around to the burgundy category, and Leslie leaned to Roarke. "What'll happen now that Sister Veronica's wine—" she began.

Roarke shushed her, and she frowned but subsided. Tattoo looked none too happy either, she saw, as the head judge raised his voice. "This will constitute the ultimate tasting between our two worthy finalists: the wines of Santa Rosarita and Fernandel." Applause broke out and Leslie noticed, not too far away, the nerdy man, the imperious woman and the anxious older man. _"Bonne chance_ to both entrants. And now, the tasting." He proceeded to pour out wine from each of two bottles into glasses.

Leslie glanced up at Sister Veronica, who looked amazingly serene, her face adorned with that ever-present smile. _Our Lady of the Perpetual Optimism, _she thought irreverently and gulped so hard to keep from laughing that Roarke gave her a strange look. She sighed gently while Sister Veronica turned to Roarke with that same beaming grin and he smiled back, though guardedly.

The silence bulged with anticipation while the judges sampled one of the wines. And then the head judge announced, "The wine of Santa Rosarita is absolutely superb!" Roarke turned to Tattoo in disbelief, but Tattoo looked thoroughly shocked. Leslie stared at the judge and wondered what had happened.

"And now the Fernandel Winery," the judge continued.

Only Leslie heard the comment from the imperious woman some yards away: "Did you screw up again?"

"No," snorted the anxious man. "That's our wine, it's just her label. I told you it was a very good year."

Leslie stared in their direction and frowned. _What in the world…_ she wondered. Her mind began working through the strange remark, so that only half her attention was on the judges while they tested the wine in the Fernandel bottle. She was brought out of her reverie by loud groans of sheer revulsion and blinked, seeing the horrified, disgusted expressions on the faces of all three judges. She shot a glance at the threesome nearby and saw their faces morph from confidence into shock.

The head judge shot them a furious glare, railed at them and declared the burgundy of Santa Rosarita to be the winner; Sister Veronica lit up, while Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie exchanged amazed glances. Leslie still hadn't had time to finish assembling the puzzle in her head, but it solved itself when the mustachioed man let out a yell as the head judge looped a gold medal on a blue ribbon around Sister Veronica's neck. "No! That's my wine you liked, not hers!" he cried. "Fernandel Burgundy!" Everyone stared at him, and he looked a little sick, but bumbled on anyway, admitting, "My son and I switched labels on the bottles earlier."

Sister Veronica's expression collapsed; Roarke eyed Tattoo, who looked away, downcast. The Fernandel representative persisted, "You can peel the labels off the bottles and see the truth for yourself."

The head judge frowned, picked up the bottle with the Fernandel label and neatly peeled it off to reveal the Santa Rosarita label. "He's right. Well…" He began to advance on the man. "I will admit that your wine is absolutely marvelous. But you, sir, are a shame and a disgrace to the winemakers of the world! And I refuse to award a medal to such a scoundrel!" The rest of his diatribe was lost in the amazed chatter that had gone up, and Leslie and Tattoo looked at each other sadly as the judge came to remove the medal from Sister Veronica's hands. "I'm sorry, Sister, but your wine is absolutely atrocious. I must go and purge my palate." So saying, he left at a clip that seemed to belie his age. Roarke, Tattoo, Leslie and Sister Veronica stared after him.

Then the woman from the Fernandel Winery said, "That's all right…congratulations, Armand. Even without the medal, winning the contest is enough to make the price of our wine skyrocket, and now we'll be able to afford all the things I want to do."

Her voice was strident enough to keep Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie in place, listening in despite themselves; thus they saw Armand Fernandel shake his head in disgust. The nerdy man, apparently his son, asked, "What's the first thing you're gonna do when we're rich, Papa?"

"The first thing I'm gonna do…" He shot a glance at the woman, then concluded, "…is get a divorce." And at just that moment, a pretty young woman passed the little group, upon which Armand's face changed and he brightened. "Uh, young woman, excuse me…how would you like to meet a wealthy wine baron?" He hurried off after her, while his startled wife raised her hand.

"Armand," she yelled after him, "our vineyard is community property! If you want a grape left to your name, you better get back here!" She set off after her wayward husband, and Leslie snickered aloud.

"It's all my fault, Sister," Tattoo suddenly said mournfully to the nun. "I'm sorry. I should never have made a promise that I couldn't keep."

"But you only made those promises out of the goodness of your heart," said Sister Veronica warmly.

"I'm sure Tattoo is grateful for that," said Roarke as his assistant's face fell. "And perhaps we should both be thankful for your amazing demonstration of unshakable faith."

"What do you mean, Mr. Roarke?" she asked.

"Well, only that my curiosity was aroused by the ghastly wine that you grew…" She winced, and he said apologetically, "I'm sorry, Sister, but it was _ghastly_…I'm sorry. Wine which by rights should have been as noble as its predecessor. So I had the soil of your vineyard analyzed, and this is the geologist's preliminary report." He withdrew an envelope from inside his jacket and handed it to Sister Veronica. "Your wine was undrinkable because it was grown on a pool of…oil."

"Oil?" breathed Sister Veronica.

"_Oil?"_ blurted Tattoo and Leslie in exact unison.

"Oil," Roarke confirmed, grinning.

"Sister, you're gonna be rich!" Tattoo exulted. "The whole valley's gonna be rich! Sister, after all, you got your fantasy!"

"I never doubted it for a moment," said Sister Veronica, that trademark beam of hers back in place.

"That's odd," commented Roarke whimsically. "Neither did I." Leslie laughed, and Tattoo grinned up at her, looking as if his whole world was back on its axis.

§ § § -- December 24, 1979

They saw a grateful Sister Veronica on her way the morning of Christmas Eve; Leslie, whose Christmas break from school began today, was still having trouble believing it. "Oil," she marveled. "Talk about a happy ending."

"Yeah, a terrific one," Tattoo agreed, looking as relieved as he was happy.

"So what about your report?" Roarke asked his ward then. "I realize you need not hand it in for two weeks, until school resumes, but I would think you'd like to have it completed and out of the way."

"Well, I'm still working on it a little bit," Leslie said, shrugging.

"Let's hear it," Tattoo suggested.

So back at the main house, Leslie got out the report and cleared her throat, looking a little sheepishly at her guardian and his assistant. "Like I said, it's not quite finished. I spent the afternoon doing some more research, after the wine contest ended."

"That's all right," said Roarke. "We'd like to hear what you have so far."

Leslie took a deep breath and began. "Lilla Jordsö is a small country in northwestern Europe and is considered part of Scandinavia. It occupies an island 28,595 square kilometers in size, slightly larger than the state of Massachusetts in the United States. Its capital city is Sundborg, population 305,297 as of the last national census taken in 1975. Total population is 784,469 as of the same census.

"The major cities are the capital, Sundborg, where most of the national governmental functions take place; Dalslund, location of the country's oldest and largest university; and Birka, site of the Jordsonian naval and air force national bases. There are six provinces in the country: Närka, Gylkrona, Danna, Målöstra, Osevik and Sukaria. Each has a provincial seat and houses a provincial government, and each province is further divided into four districts governed by district councils. General rule is shared by a parliamentary government and the ruling monarch.

"The current monarch is King Arnulf, who ascended to the throne in 1962. He is married to Queen Susanna, and they have four children, the oldest of whom will succeed to the throne as King Arnulf the Second. The royal palace is situated on the northwestern coast and is not affiliated with any town, district or province, as a symbol of solidarity with all the people of the country.

"The country is mostly self-sufficient, due in large part to oil fields discovered off its northern coast in the mid-1950s. Its only other export is an indigenous freshwater fish known as silver-speckled trout. Agriculture is one of the main industries and includes most food crops, along with some beef and dairy cattle, pigs and various fowl, sheep and goats. Cheese is made from cows', goats' and sheep's milk, and wine is made from assorted fruits, primarily apples, but also cherries and pears." She stopped and shrugged her shoulders. "That's all I have so far."

"Oh, come on. If you spent the whole afternoon researching, you have to have more than that," Tattoo said.

"Well, actually, I found something really interesting," Leslie said, skirting the Christmas tree and picking up a tall wrapped box which she handed to Mr. Roarke. "I got this for you for Christmas."

"Indeed?" Roarke queried and eyed her. "Don't you think I should wait till tomorrow?"

Leslie shrugged. "Okay, so it's a day early, but I figured, considering what happened this weekend, well…" She trailed off, caught their looks and rolled her eyes. "Please, just open it."

Chuckling, Roarke removed the ribbon and bow and pulled away the wrapping paper, revealing a box. Tattoo drifted closer and peered at it while Roarke opened the top and carefully lifted out a clear, pale-green wine bottle labeled in what appeared to be a Scandinavian language. "Leslie, how did you get this?" he asked.

"I went to the wine shop in town and asked if they'd wrap and deliver it," she explained. "It was the only bottle of the stuff there, and…well, I hope it's worth it, but I wanted to…"

"Boss," Tattoo interrupted. "This is from a place called Mercury's Wings Vineyards—in Lilla Jordsö! Do you believe it? It's apple wine, it says so right here!" He pointed at the box that had contained the bottle.

Roarke set down the bottle and lifted the box, which unlike the label was printed in English. "How in the world did you come by this, Leslie?" he asked, amazed.

She toed the rug with one shoe and peered up at him through her bangs. "Well, like I said, it was the only one in the store. I asked the proprietor about it, and it turns out he and his wife visited all the Scandinavian countries and had wine shipped back from Lilla Jordsö when they went there. This bottle was the last one they had and they didn't expect to get any more. But they said it's very good."

"Hmm," Roarke mused, turning the bottle around and perusing its label again. Then he stilled for a long moment before looking suspiciously at her. "You're too young to purchase alcohol, Leslie Susan. Tell me how you really came by this."

She made a face and admitted reluctantly, "I talked the proprietor out of his last bottle that he was saving for himself and his wife. I wanted you to try it, after I read about it yesterday." She hesitated, watching Roarke's expression slowly shift, and shrugged again, adding in a small voice, "You let me try sips of some of the wines in the contest. I was hoping you'd let me try a sip or two of this one too."

Roarke set down the bottle and started to laugh. "Research, indeed!" he chortled, and Leslie grinned foolishly as Tattoo joined in his boss' merriment.

§ § § -- April 6, 2006

"Well, well," said Christian, peering at her with enormous interest. "Was it pure luck that got you assigned Lilla Jordsö to write a report on, or what?"

"Not really. I wanted an especially obscure and small country to write about," Leslie admitted. "I was thinking I was going to get someplace in Africa or South America, but somehow my teacher came up with Lilla Jordsö and told me to write about that. To tell you the truth, I expect I'd never have heard of it if it hadn't been for my grandmother's visit there. I knew about that at the time—otherwise I'd have said something like _Huh?_ and asked for something else, probably."

"The original flatterer, aren't you, my Rose," Christian observed wryly, touching off laughter. "So what of our _eplavin_, Mr. Roarke? Did you ever extend the invitation to Merkurias Vinger to enter their wines in your contest?" He saw Rogan's and Julie's odd looks and explained, "That's the _jordiska_ for Mercury's Wings." They nodded.

Roarke said, "As a matter of fact, the owners were forced to turn down my invitation. Their winery may have been a national concern in your country, but they did not export, and that meant a very small patronage. They didn't feel they could compete with richer and more renowned vineyards; furthermore, they could not afford the expense it required to travel here for the competition. So that, I am afraid, was the end of that venture, much to Leslie's disappointment. She liked that wine very much when I allowed her a small taste, and begged for a full glass every time she saw me drink some, until the bottle was empty."

Christian burst out laughing. "Maybe I'd better contact the owners about shipping some of it here—if Rudolf's wife hasn't depleted their stock already. She's addicted to it."

"Isn't she pregnant?" Leslie asked. "She can hardly drown herself in _eplavin_ if she's expecting."

"That's what I'm counting on," Christian retorted, and they all laughed again. "I wonder if they'll ever compete. I understand that Vallomoros Vineyards in Arcolos has not only entered the contest for a very long time, but also won it hands down, eight years running now."

"So they have," said Roarke. "They consistently produce the best wine any of our judges has ever tasted. Perhaps they could do with a little competition." He grinned. "But that's for another time."

"Hey, Uncle Roarke…what about famous people? Have a lot of cool rock stars and movie stars come here?" Rory spoke up eagerly.

"Dozens," Roarke assured him. "And not just in show business, but in many other areas as well. Authors, wealthy businesspeople, athletes, politicians, royalty—why, don't forget, you're in the presence of royalty this very moment. Had you anyone specific in mind?"

"Oh," said Rory and eyed Christian from his perch in Rogan's lap. "I forgot you were a prince."

"Would that I heard those words more often," Christian pretended to lament, and was promptly booed by Leslie, Julie and Rogan before they all dissolved into laughter again. "Leslie still has a tattered autograph book that has perhaps one or two blank pages left in it before it's finally full. Whose were the first signatures in it, my Rose?"

She thought about it. "Hmm…I don't quite remember. If I had it here I might be able to…no, wait a minute, I remember now. Tattoo gave me that book for my fourteenth birthday—the same weekend Cornelius Kelly and Alphonse kidnapped him. We had our regular complement of fantasies that weekend too, and both of them involved people who were either famous or at least on their way to it. I was able to get everybody's autographs to christen my new book when they said their goodbyes at the plane dock."

"Ah yes," Roarke recalled, "the fashion model and the aspiring comedian. I presume you'd like the story." At the eager nods of his audience, he winked at Leslie and launched into the tale.


	23. Chapter 23

§ § § -- May 5, 1979

They emerged from the house together, a little earlier than usual since they needed to be in enough time to meet the balloon on the other side of the island. Leslie knew it would be a hectic weekend, but Roarke had promised that they wouldn't neglect her birthday no matter how busy they got. She had learned at a pretty early age not to put too much stock in promises made by men; her father had certainly never kept any of the few he had made. But in the almost three months since she'd first arrived on the island, she had been learning that her guardian was a man of his word. Even at that, since they were going to be constantly on the move all weekend, she didn't expect very much. She was willing to settle for a small private party at the main house, perhaps after school on Monday if need be.

So she was in a good mood when she and Roarke paused at the top of the porch steps to wait for Tattoo to join them from the bell tower. Native girls were still flowing past them on both sides, trotting down the steps and hurrying away in the direction of the plane dock with the easy grace Leslie envied, laughing and chattering all the way. As the last ones jogged off across the lane, Tattoo appeared beside them and smirked up at them. He was wearing a pair of glasses attached to a fake nose and mustache, and twirled a cigar in one hand. They stared at him, and Roarke said in disbelief, "Good grief."

Tattoo just grinned some more. "Boss, it's time to play 'You Bet My Face'. Try to guess—who am I?"

Roarke shot a brief look into the sky before gathering his composure and humoring him. "Um…" Tattoo pretended to tap an ash off the end of the cigar, and Roarke offered, "Humphrey Bogart."

Tattoo managed to look offended behind the plastic nose. "Aw, boss, stop kidding around!" With that, he waddled around Roarke and Leslie in a slightly drunken gait, making one orbit around them while Roarke rotated along with him, trying to watch him. "I was mobbed for my impression of Groucho Marx!" Roarke got a look of comprehension about him; Leslie peered at him a little blankly, having heard of Groucho Marx but unfamiliar with the late comedian's mannerisms. "You know," Tattoo prompted then, "for the big Amateur Show? Now, don't you think he's too much, huh?"

"Definitely," Roarke assured him, with more than one meaning behind the word. Leslie hid a smile behind her hand; she still had trouble showing her amusement, for fear of offending Tattoo. "Shall we greet our guests?" So saying, he headed for the waiting rover; Leslie cast a glance at Tattoo and hurried after him. Disgusted, Tattoo yanked off the glasses and followed, evidently giving up for the moment, although Leslie was convinced he wasn't finished yet.

At the plane dock the first guest to emerge from the charter's hatch was a familiar-looking middle-aged man who half walked, half danced down the ramp in time to the lively welcoming music. "Boss, look," Tattoo exclaimed, "it's Danny Baker, the famous comedian! He breaks me up."

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Baker is here for a holiday, and also to be master of ceremonies for the big Fantasy Island Amateur Night Show," Roarke explained. Tattoo and Leslie nodded.

"Does he have a fantasy?" Tattoo asked hopefully.

"No," said Roarke, "but the young man with him does." He indicated a slender, somewhat nervous-looking fellow somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties, dark-haired and wide-eyed, lugging four suitcases with him along the dock. "He is Mr. Jerry Burton, and for the past eight years he's been Mr. Baker's writer."

"Wow," Tattoo said, impressed. "What a terrific job."

"Perhaps." Roarke's gaze was on Burton. "But it's a long way from the excitement and warmth of the spotlight. Mr. Burton wants to step out of oblivion and into the center of the stage, where he can fulfill his fantasy to be what his employer is—a star comic."

Tattoo peered skeptically at the overburdened young man, who had finally caught up with Danny Baker and was trying to set down his load without dropping anything. "Boss, I don't think even you can help him." At Roarke's quizzical look, Tattoo opined, "Mr. Burton looks like a—a king-sized nothing!"

Roarke eyed Tattoo reproachfully, and Leslie ventured, "That sounds like a pretty harsh assessment to me." Tattoo shot her a look of his own, but Roarke had shifted his attention to their next guest, this time an attractive dark-haired woman with the sort of face that suggested faint stockiness without there actually being any; she was expensively dressed and gracious, though open, in her return of the native girls' greetings. "Ms. Linda Larson," he said.

"She looks like a lady who can handle her own fantasies," Tattoo remarked. "Does she really need us?"

"She didn't come for herself, Tattoo," Roarke said. "She's here to help her sister, Sandi." Now they could see a very attractive dark-blonde woman being lifted out of the hatch and into a waiting wheelchair. "Sandi was well on her way to becoming a top fashion model, and then she was injured in an automobile accident five years ago."

"That's very sad," said Tattoo. Leslie agreed; she thought Sandi Larson looked less than enthusiastic to be on the island, although she did seem to smile politely and briefly at the attendants helping her before settling herself into the chair with the familiarity of years spent living with the disability.

"Yes, it is, Tattoo," said Roarke gravely. "Her desire to live seemed paralyzed along with her legs…until a year ago, when she began a pen-pal relationship with a man in prison. His letters seemed to fill her with happiness and a desire to live and get well."

"What did the letters say?" Tattoo wondered.

Roarke shook his head slightly. "She never shared the contents, Tattoo. She never told her pen pal she was crippled. Then, three months ago, his letters stopped coming for some reason, and she's been depressed ever since." Sandi Larson seemed caught up in the upbeat mood after all, Leslie saw; she was smiling brightly up at one of the native girls as she accepted a drink.

"And that's why her sister brought her here—to cheer her up?" Tattoo guessed.

"Much more than that, Tattoo. Sandi doesn't know it yet, but she's here to finally meet her pen pal, Mr. Michael Banning."

"But boss…you said he was in prison," Tattoo protested. Leslie peered up at her guardian with interest, wondering how he was going to get around this obstacle.

"Unfortunately, yes—maximum security." Roarke took out his gold pocket watch. "And at this moment, he is being flown from a military prison in Japan to Leavenworth Prison in Kansas." He made careful note of the time before snapping the watch closed again.

"But boss, how're you going to bring them together?" demanded Tattoo. And there, thought Leslie, was the big question of the day. Of course, Roarke simply gave them one of those annoyingly mysterious smiles and lifted his glass in the weekly toast.

‡ ‡ ‡

They had arrived at the supper club, where most appearances by comics and other small acts usually took place; the room was fairly casually furnished in a vaguely Polynesian style and currently empty of people. Tattoo had gone off somewhere else while Roarke took Leslie along to pick up Jerry Burton and Danny Baker from the former man's bungalow; Baker had decided to take the suite on the top floor of the hotel for added privacy. Roarke had wanted to get these fantasies under way now; while the Larson sisters, Burton and Baker had been settling into their accommodations, they had gone to meet the balloon and greet the guests coming in that way before returning to their own end of the island. Leslie was already feeling tired from all the running back and forth, but she was determined to hold up throughout. Otherwise she feared missing out on something, and she was too enchanted by her guardian's unique business to risk that.

So it was three men and an uncertain girl of barely fourteen who entered the club; Roarke gestured toward the stage and the seating area, consisting of groupings of chairs ringing tables. "And this is where we'll hold the Amateur Night Show, Mr. Baker. I think you'll find our stage rather well-equipped."

Baker peered critically around him. "Yeah. Yeah, everything looks okay, but I'm gonna fix it up a little, you don't mind." This last came out as a statement rather than a question, and Baker barreled right on ahead while Roarke watched, bemused, and Jerry Burton frantically scrawled notations in a small black book. "Put some more speakers in the back of the house, willya, I wanna make sure they hear me. And get some lights up front—look how dark it is!" He noticed a large macramé tapestry free-hanging from the ceiling and stared incredulously at it. "What's with this contraption hanging here? It's gonna block about four tables!" He shook his head in disgust, made a circuit around the room while Burton, Roarke and Leslie watched him, turned and came back. "Well, I guess the seats aren't _too_ bad, but there's a loose door at the back. Make sure they tighten it so it doesn't rattle during my act. And talk to the bandleader about the arrangements, huh?" He nodded, started to leave again, then once more swung around, his face lit all over with inspiration.

"And kid," he blurted excitedly at Burton, "I gotta have some Fantasy Island material. Big jokes about the hotel, the guests, maybe even a coupla lines about Mr. Roarke here." He gestured at a startled Roarke and queried, "Okay by you? Nothing offensive—here, give him a sample, kid."

Automatically Jerry produced, rather like a robot that had just been switched on, but his face alive with animation that showed his brain was flying. "Uh…you all know your host, Mr. Roarke…his fantasy is to find a dry cleaners that doesn't bleach his suits. He used to have a job on a milk truck, but his customers all went snow-blind—"

Baker thudded Burton on the shoulder and beamed at Roarke, whose expression seemed a little thunderstruck. "See what I mean? Good-taste yuks. Speaking of which—do you have any funny stuff about Fantasy Island I can use in my routine? You know, stories about people on your staff or something?"

Roarke considered it, caught in a very rare off-guard moment. "Well, I'm not sure, but perhaps…"

Fortunately (or not, as the case might have been), before Baker could issue any more orders, a gravelly French accent broke in with, "Let's hear it for another great impression from the wonderful Tattoo!" They all stared at the stage, where somehow a grand piano had appeared, fronted by a huge candelabra outfitted with several lit red tapers. Beside this stood Tattoo, his thick black hair teased into a pompadour and streaked with a couple of broad white stripes that reminded Leslie of Frankenstein's bride's hairstyle, resplendent in a glittery gold jacket of unknown origin and with a ring on every finger.

Undaunted by the puzzled silence and the stares he was getting, Tattoo beamed at them. "Good evening, music lovers!" Leslie noticed a _what the hell??_ look on Baker's face; Roarke seemed marginally tolerant and annoyed at once, and Burton merely looked on blankly. "Tonight I would like to play for you, for my first selection, one of my all-time favorites. 'The Beer Barrel Polka'." He rolled his eyes and swayed slightly on his feet, clearly channeling Liberace. Leslie watched dubiously; Roarke rolled his eyes and settled his stance, apparently preparing to wait it out.

Tattoo sat at the piano, knocked the microphone towards him with one hand to better pick up his playing, and beamed fatuously at them before diving right into his performance. Leslie had had no idea he could play the piano and had to admit she was fairly impressed. Burton cast Roarke a polite little smile, and Roarke returned a strained one of his own; Baker gazed on with increasing interest. Tattoo played merrily away, frequently shooting bright, leering grins at his captive audience.

Suddenly Baker exclaimed low, "Hey, that's great!" He nudged Burton. "Put a coupla lines about the shrimp into my act, wouldja? See ya later!" Baker tugged on Burton's ear as Burton dutifully recorded the request, then tossed off, "Bye, Roarke, kid," and walked briskly toward the door. All the while, Tattoo kept playing happily on, uncomfortably dividing Leslie's and Roarke's attention between him and Baker.

Finally Roarke had had enough. "Uh, Tattoo," he called out, but Tattoo seemed too engrossed in his performance to notice, and Roarke had to raise his voice. "Tattoo!"

This time he got the Frenchman's attention; the playing stopped and Tattoo instantly dropped character, jumping to his feet from the piano bench. "Yes, boss?"

"I—I think that is sufficient. Thank you so much," Roarke said, with another faintly strained smile.

Apologetically Tattoo offered, "It needs a lot of work, huh?"

On the hot seat, Roarke fumbled, "Uh…uh, well…" He gestured futilely, and Tattoo seemed to lose his buoyancy, tossing his hands into the air and slowly leaving the stage on Leslie's sheepishly apologetic look. When he was gone, Roarke almost visibly pulled his composure around him and focused on their guest, who had completed his note-taking and was watching expectantly. "Uh, Mr. Burton, why don't you have a seat?"

"Oh, thank you," said Jerry Burton, smiling at Leslie for the first time. She smiled shyly back as she, Burton and Roarke settled at a table. "Danny Baker relies heavily on you, doesn't he?" Burton made a shrugging-off face and gesture. "But I must say, he didn't seem unappreciative—" Burton frowned, and Roarke insisted, "No, no, really, despite his abrupt behavior. Are you sure you want to quit your job and become a stand-up comedian yourself?"

"Surer than ever, Mr. Roarke," Burton said with quiet conviction. "You see, Danny's planning to fire me next month when my contract runs out."

"Why should he want to fire you, after…what is it now, eight years? Eight successful years together?"

"Maybe because Danny's a comic and comics always resent their writers. You see, they think it's them that's funny, not the material. Whatever the reason, my time's running out and I need that fantasy quick."

Roarke smiled. "I see. Now, would tomorrow night be quick enough for you?"

Burton sat up in astonishment. "Tomorrow night! You got me a date that quick? Wow, that's great, Mr. Roarke!" he exclaimed, overjoyed.

"Yes, your first engagement as a stand-up comedian," Roarke agreed with a broad smile. "I've arranged for you to be the opening act at a small nightclub on the north side of the island." Leslie stared at him; she knew exactly which nightclub he had in mind. It was a notorious place that she knew flirted with the edge of the law; she'd heard a lot of stories from Michiko about how her father had to constantly send out constables to put down trouble there. Roarke must have felt her insistent gaze, for he glanced at her, took obvious note of her frown and cleared his throat. "Uh, it's a bar, actually…called the Bucket of Suds. Its clientele consists mostly of workers from the pineapple plantation and off-duty sailors. Heavy drinkers, but good laughers." Leslie sat back in her chair and eyed Burton; he seemed slightly doubtful, but game all the same.

He proved it by saying, "Mr. Roarke, I'll take it. And you don't know how grateful I am."

"Fine. Then I'll tell them to expect you, huh?"

"Right." Burton grinned happily at his hands; then he seemed to remember something and started, going bolt upright again. "Oh!" He jumped to his feet, and Roarke and Leslie automatically followed suit. "If you'll excuse me, I got about nine pounds of jokes to write for Danny." He shook hands with Roarke. "At least I can leave him laughing, huh? Thank you." He shot a hasty smile at Leslie and then hurried out of the club, leaving his host and the girl standing there watching him go.

"He's so nervous," Leslie finally said.

"Indeed he is," Roarke agreed, frowning a little. "You have good powers of observation, Leslie. Let's just hope that nervousness doesn't prove to be Mr. Burton's undoing." He stood as if ruminating for a few more seconds, then straightened. "Come, we need to see to the Larson ladies."

She fell into step beside him, but shook her head, and he caught the movement in his peripheral vision. "What's the matter?" he asked.

"C'mon, Mr. Roarke…you're really serious? You're actually going to send that poor guy to the Bucket of Suds?" Leslie asked incredulously. "I'm always hearing stories from Michiko about—"

"Yes, I believe you've mentioned the tales she's told in regard to Sheriff Tokita's constantly needing to send officers there to quell unrest. But no one can start at the top. Musicians pay their dues in restaurants where half the audience is concentrating on their meal or their companionship. Actors pay their dues on cramped stages in obscure theaters in small towns all over. And so must comedians pay their dues in smoky bars, where their reception depends on how much of their audience they can keep captive. This will be an excellent experience for Mr. Burton to begin his career. Do you understand now?"

She considered it. "I guess so. But it kind of seems like a harsh sentence anyway."

Roarke smiled. "Perhaps so, but I have no doubt the young man can handle it. Now we really must hurry."


	24. Chapter 24

§ § § -- May 5, 1979

They met Linda and Sandi Larson in front of the main house where they had been sitting in the side yard at one of the tables that were usually set up there, having some tea and waiting to be shown to their bungalow. This was accomplished with a minimum of fuss, even despite Sandi's wheelchair; a ramp had been installed at the Larson bungalow for the weekend to accommodate this. Tattoo met them there, his Liberace guise thoroughly scrubbed away as if it had never been, and Roarke then performed introductions. Linda Larson beamed at him and their surroundings, then complimented, "Mr. Roarke, your island is the most beautiful place I've ever seen."

"I am delighted," Roarke responded with an appreciative smile.

Sandi Larson spoke then, for the first time, her face full of suspicious questions. "Okay. Now do I find out why you brought me here, Linda?"

"Why, to cheer you up," Linda insisted.

"We're quite good at it, if you'll give us the chance," Roarke offered.

Sandi glanced at the faces, smiled just faintly at Leslie's overly hopeful look, then sighed. "I'm sure you do, Mr. Roarke. I just wish I could cheer up…but I keep thinking of all the things I can't do anymore." With that, she reached for the wheels of her chair, and the young native girl who had been helping her pushed her into the bungalow, closing the door behind them.

Linda looked grim; Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie glanced at one another, and Roarke murmured, "Your sister's morale does seem very low, Ms. Larson."

Linda shook her head. "I told you, Mr. Roarke. She's been like that since Mike Banning's letters stopped coming." She frowned again. "I don't mind telling you I'm very skeptical. I mean…how can you possibly get Mike Banning out of prison and on this island?"

Roarke got that mysterious look about him again, smiled at the woman and withdrew his gold watch to check the time. "You must have faith, Ms. Larson," he said, ever so gently admonishing, and looked into the sky for a second or two before focusing on her again. "This is Fantasy Island."

Linda eyed him, noticed that uniquely sphinxlike expression Tattoo seemed to acquire when he was emulating his boss' mysterious mien, and squinted at Leslie, who tried her best to limit her expression to a simple smile. "Faith," she mumbled. "That's been in short supply around our place lately. But…all right. I've been told you deliver handsomely. I'll be very grateful if you can do the same for my sister." She smiled, rather perfunctorily, then murmured, "Excuse me, please," and retreated into the bungalow.

"So how long till you supposedly get that prisoner here?" Tattoo wanted to know.

"They are still nearly an hour out," Roarke noted, putting his watch away. "There is time to make certain our other guests have been seen to. But we must hurry."

"That's all we ever do around here anymore," Tattoo complained. "Hurry, hurry, hurry. Ever since you decided to start this experiment with granting kids' fantasies, all of a sudden we're going crazy."

"Oh, come on," scoffed Leslie with a grin, "you love it!"

He shot her a look, then grinned back. "Yeah, I do," he admitted cheerfully. "Well, let's go."

‡ ‡ ‡

By the time they'd seen to the other fantasies—with Roarke having put Cindy in charge of the two children looking for adoptive parents and Tattoo in charge of keeping Cornelius Kelly and Alphonse happy—Roarke seemed to have an urgent aura about him, and instead of heading for the main house drove to Fantasy Island's small airport, which was located about a third of the way back toward their side of the island, on the southern shore. The place seemed deserted, but as Roarke turned the rover into the drive that led toward the tower, Leslie could see a rack filled with bicycles, a fire truck, and a couple of small planes parked near the lone runway. There were indeed employees here, she realized.

They greeted her and Roarke with deferential smiles as Roarke led his ward into the building and climbed toward the traffic-control room on the tower's top floor. "What're we doing here? You mean you just expect them to make a stopover here?" she asked.

"They would do no such thing," said Roarke. "There are no stopovers in places that are not heavily fortified with security, when a prisoner is being transported."

She frowned, stymied, and looked around the observation tower. There was a wonderful view from here, and for a few minutes she was distracted by the faint roar of the ocean hitting rocks below the promontory on which the airport sat, before an urgent voice abruptly broke the silence and caused Roarke to grab for a radio receiver and turn up the volume. _"Mayday, mayday! This is Air Force Zebra Whiskey Zulu two-five-one-five, calling anyone! Can you read us??"_

A second voice added its calmer tones immediately thereafter. _"Pilot to tower—mayday, mayday."_

Roarke depressed the button on the transmitter and responded, "Air Force Zebra Whiskey Zulu two-five-one-five, this is Fantasy Island. You are approximately forty miles northwest of us on a bearing of three hundred and twenty degrees. We have an emergency landing strip on the south end of the island. Please alter your heading to one-six-zero—I repeat, one-six-zero."

"How do you know where they are?" Leslie demanded. Roarke hadn't even looked at a radar screen. But he said nothing, simply glanced back at her with a half smile before turning his scrutiny to the windows, searching the sky. She gave up and joined him, not sure what they were looking for, but imagining they would probably know it when they saw it.

"_Air Force Zebra Whiskey Zulu two-five-one-five…I have you in sight, and you're looking good…"_ said the voice of one of the employees; at the same time Leslie noticed the fire truck moving out toward the runway, and just barely made out a figure inside the cab talking on a transmitter like the one Roarke had used. Beside her Roarke straightened, and she followed his gaze. On the western horizon there was a small dot that gradually grew larger as the transport craft approached.

"_There's a ten-knot crosswind out of the east,"_ said the employee voice.

"_Roger, Fantasy Island Tower…ten-knot crosswind out of the east. We're now turning on final approach."_ Roarke and Leslie stood listening to the give-and-take between the pilot and the ground, while the dot became a small airplane and they watched it bank and turn as it lowered itself toward the tarmac.

A couple of minutes later the little plane touched down, bouncing a couple of times before settling onto the pavement and taxiing along the runway. They could see that one of its two propellers was still; as the craft sailed past the fire truck, the sirens and lights went on and the vehicle followed the plane down the runway. Roarke nodded at Leslie and started out of the tower, and she followed him, half running to keep up with his purposeful stride. They caught up with the plane as it hit grass, rotated and came to a stop, falling silent as the pilot killed the remaining engine.

Leslie stayed in the front passenger seat of the rover while Roarke got out to meet their newest arrivals, and she looked on intensely. "Ah, gentlemen," Roarke greeted as four men stepped out of the hatch, "I am Mr. Roarke. Welcome to Fantasy Island."

"Well, thank you, sir," responded one of the men. Leslie recognized the pilot's voice from the radio. The co-pilot was younger, still looking a little shaken at their apparent close call; the remaining two men looked a little less startled, but happy to be on terra firma nonetheless. One was an older man with a ten-gallon hat and a suit and tie; the other was clad in a plain blue jumpsuit and had his hands manacled in front of him. Leslie guessed this latter was Michael Banning, Sandi Larson's prison pen pal.

The man in the hat spoke up bluntly, with what sounded to Leslie like a Texas accent. "My name's Victor Grennan; I'm a federal marshal. This's my prisoner." He indicated the manacled man. "You got someplace I can lock him up while they're gettin' the plane fixed?"

Roarke could be equally blunt when the occasion called for it, Leslie learned right then. "Does your prisoner have a name?" he asked.

"Yeah," broke in the manacled man. "Mike Banning, Mr. Roarke." He offered a hand to shake, bringing the restraints into plain sight.

"Like I was sayin'," Grennan repeated, obviously unmoved, "where can I lock him up?"

"Nowhere, Marshal…uh…" Roarke began.

"Grennan," the man supplied.

"Marshal Grennan. I'm afraid that not only can you not lock him up, I'll have to ask you to remove the restraining belt." Grennan's gaze became incredulous, and Roarke assured him, "Oh, but you have nothing to worry about; there is no escape from the island."

Grennan grew blustery. "Look, he's my prisoner, and I'll chain him to the plane if I have to!"

"Please, Marshal…um, uh, Grennan." Roarke still smiled, but his voice carried a hint of steel. "This is my island. I am the law here—the only law."

Grennan stood staring at him for a moment, then seemed to relent and turned to Banning, removing a key from his pocket. He spoke loudly enough that everyone within earshot heard him easily. "Now you listen to me, punk. I've never lost a prisoner, and you're not gonna be number one." He unlocked the belt around Banning's waist and wrists and yanked him around to complete its removal. "You try gettin' off this island, you're gon' get yourself killed!"

Roarke seemed to take this in with minimal reaction, but Leslie frowned. She had the sense that this guy was just a little too gung-ho, and wondered what lay in store for them.

‡ ‡ ‡

They reached the main house with only Banning in the car, after dropping off Grennan and the pilots at the hotel where they had all taken rooms. Roarke had to talk Grennan into leaving him "in charge" of Banning for a while, reminding him that there was no way for Banning to get off the island and there should be no trouble. "I have an excellent constabulary, and if need be, I can request their help. I need to speak with Mr. Banning."

Grennan had scowled and given up. "All right, Roarke, I'm holdin' you responsible for my prisoner." With no more than that as a farewell, he'd loped off to the hotel after the pilots, and the ride to the main house was completed in silence, though both Roarke and Leslie sensed that Michael Banning had a lot of questions to ask.

In the study, Roarke handed Banning a shirt and pants and gestured at a club chair, while Leslie went over to the window and spotted Sandi Larson sitting at one of the tables in the side yard. "When you've had a chance to change," Roarke addressed Banning, "there is someone on the island you might like to see."

Banning eyed him. "I don't think I know anyone on this island."

"I'm referring," Roarke said, "to Miss Sandi Larson."

Banning stared at him for so long that Leslie, usually timid around their guests and particularly so around this one, was driven to speak up. "Your pen pal, remember?"

"Yeah," Banning finally said, looking amazed, his gaze shooting back and forth between Roarke and Leslie. "Uh…she here?" He was looking at Leslie as he said this, and she nodded quickly and gestured out the window with a thumb over her shoulder, her shyness drying up her throat. Banning slowly crossed the room, stopped in front of the settee a mere two feet away from where she had sat down, and peered out the window at the woman in blue eating alone at the table. She was the only person who occupied a table unaccompanied, so Banning had no trouble establishing who she was. "Sandi," he said softly, that astonished expression lingering.

"Yes, she's here," Roarke finally said when he realized Leslie didn't intend to say any more, "on a little vacation."

Banning stared at Sandi through the window for another second or two, then frowned a little and turned to face Roarke. "I'd, uh…I'd prefer not to see her."

Roarke raised an eyebrow. "Well, that's surprising, since the two of you have corresponded for over a year and haven't met!"

"Yeah, well…for a while I had my reasons," Banning said with a shrug. "I don't have them anymore. I think you, uh…know how it is…" He turned away from the window and started back toward the desk, allowing Leslie to relax. She herself didn't realize she did it, but Roarke noticed, as he noticed everything, and smiled faintly and fleetingly before focusing on Banning with a sternly expectant look.

"No, I don't," he said pointedly. "Perhaps you should tell me."

Banning planted himself in the middle of the rug and shrugged slightly. "Well, in prison they take away all your privacy. They search you down to your underwear, and they go through all your mail, incoming and outgoing. And in the outgoing, I'd slide in all these little niceties. 'Live good, do good, be good'…to impress the board."

"I see," murmured Roarke neutrally.

"Right. Well, I went before the board three months ago, and as you can see, they're not exactly taking me to the Mardi Gras."

"No, they're not…I see." Roarke raised his voice a little. "Then her letters meant nothing at all to you." It was a statement rather than a question.

"Well, some, yeah," Banning said with another shrug. "She's good people; it's just that, uh…" He trailed off, as if unable to come up with anything more compelling than that.

Roarke stepped into the breach. "I think you should see Miss Larson anyway."

"Oh really?" Banning retorted mildly.

"Really." Roarke seemed to meander, but his stroll had purpose as he went to the desk and opened the drawer that usually held the charter-plane passes, while Banning and Leslie watched. "If not…" He lifted out a strange-looking contraption that made Leslie blink and Banning's eyes widen a little. "A fuel pump, to fix your airplane's engine, might conveniently be found in the next few minutes."

Banning, his bluff called, stared at Roarke, at the fuel pump, and then briefly at Sandi through the window before finally asking, "That's how it goes, huh?"

"That's how it goes," confirmed Roarke. "Agreed?"

Banning made a motion as if to shove his hands into pockets, then checked himself when he remembered the prison-issue jumpsuit didn't have any. Resigned, he looked up at Roarke and said, "Looks like I have no choice." Roarke smiled faintly, then escorted him outside where two of the young native men who usually acted as attendants at the plane dock were waiting to take Banning to a small unoccupied bungalow where he could change clothes. He and Leslie watched the car drive away with Banning in the middle seat, holding the shirt and pants Roarke had given him, still looking bemused.

Leslie bit her lip and shot one hurried glance at Sandi, who was now reading a book over her nearly empty lunch plate. "Mr. Roarke…wouldn't it be, well, kinder not to let her see him? I mean…he isn't the nicest guy I ever met."

"And atop that, my child," said Roarke flatly, "he's a liar. There's a little incident with a prison guard that he neglected to mention." So saying, he headed back into the house, and Leslie trailed him, feeling sorry for Sandi Larson.

The phone was ringing as they came in and Roarke picked it up, only to find that it was Cornelius Kelly and to learn that Kelly, along with his friend Alphonse, had kidnapped Tattoo. After he had finished the conversation and reassured Chester and Pepper who had come in during the call, he fielded another phone call that made him roll his eyes.

Leslie tilted her head at him when he hung up. "What's the matter now?"

Roarke gave her a rueful look and admitted, "That was Sheriff Tokita. Trouble, I'm afraid." He peered at Leslie and said, "It seems you'll have to fill Tattoo's shoes while he's busy with Cornelius and Alphonse. Let's have a little lunch, and then we'll make a few rounds. I have some bad news for Jerry Burton."


	25. Chapter 25

§ § § -- May 5, 1979

They took a break for lunch, then Roarke made a few phone calls before bringing Michael Banning back to the main house. Banning had changed into the clothing Roarke had given him and looked pensive as Roarke took him out to where Sandi had been eating a bowl of fruit for her dessert; she was still engrossed in the book she was reading. Roarke gestured toward her, and Banning glanced at him a little nervously.

"What, now?" he asked.

"Now," Roarke confirmed.

Banning stared at Sandi a moment longer before mumbling, "Good-looking girl, huh?" Roarke smiled faintly and watched Banning head through some ferns, step into the clearing and pause beside Sandi's table. Roarke nodded once to himself and returned to the main house, calling back to the Larson bungalow and speaking with Linda long enough for her to agree to bring her sister's wheelchair to the house for him. By the time it arrived, Banning and Sandi had been sitting at their table for some little time, making halting conversation but at least not shunning each other's company, as Leslie noted.

"Don't tell me you've been watching those two all this time!" said Roarke in a mock-scolding tone.

"I couldn't help it. I just wanted to be sure he didn't jump up and run out on her or something," admitted Leslie, her finger stuck inside a copy of _The Ransom of Red Chief_ to hold her place.

Roarke shook his head and laughed a little. "You're supposed to be reading, Leslie Susan. And you may as well do that now while I provide Mr. Banning and Miss Larson with the lady's wheelchair." She smiled and shrugged, but couldn't resist watching her guardian crossing the yard with the chair anyway—and thus was witness to what happened next.

"I thought the two of you might want to move around," she heard Roarke say.

Sandi's expression was crushed and offended. "Mr. Roarke, how could you?" she moaned and dropped her head so that she stared at her lap. Banning's eyes fixed on her, then widened as he made the connections.

Roarke, a bit nonplussed, turned to him. "Does it make any difference, Mr. Banning?"

Banning stared at Sandi, who refused to look up, and finally seemed to make a decision. "No."

"Well, then, why don't you help the lady?" prompted Roarke.

Sandi's head shot up. "I don't need any help," she said curtly and slammed her cloth napkin onto the table before hoisting herself out of her chair and into the wheelchair. She rolled her head back as if gauging Banning's reaction to her condition, then glared up at Roarke and announced, "I want to go back to my bungalow."

"Oh, I suggest that our lagoon is much prettier," Roarke said with a smile, and to Banning he suggested, "Why don't you take Miss Larson there?"

"It's okay, I don't want to go," Sandi repeated.

Roarke said firmly, "I think you should, Miss Larson."

Banning stepped behind the chair and Roarke moved aside; Sandi said again, "I don't need any help."

"I wasn't gonna help," Banning replied carelessly. "I was just gonna put my hands on the handles, so it'd look like I was helping." Sandi fell silent at that, but she didn't look at him; Roarke watched them move past him and along the nearest path to the lagoon, frowning a little.

When he came back in, Leslie shook her head. "Boy, Mr. Roarke, did you ever blow that one."

Roarke gave her such a look that she wished she hadn't opened her mouth. "Since you've decided not to continue reading, young lady," he said sternly, "you may as well come along with me so that I can speak to Jerry Burton." She bit her lip, found a bookmark and set the book aside, following Roarke meekly out of the house. But on the porch, he paused to let her catch up with him, then lifted her chin so that she was forced to look up at him. "If Mr. Banning and Miss Larson were to spend any length of time together, sooner or later she would have had to tell him about the wheelchair," he said. "Perhaps my method looked harsh to you, but it was better that the secret come out so that they could deal with it."

She nodded faintly and murmured, "I'm sorry I opened my big mouth."

He laughed softly. "Don't worry about it. Now, let's go."

As it turned out, they found Danny Baker first, standing amidst a gaggle of young, pretty, model-like girls who were clustered around him collecting his autograph. "And there you are, m'dear, that'll be a dollar eighty," he kidded, handing an autograph book to one woman. Then a blonde in a black bikini caught his attention and his eyes popped. "Oh, you look gorgeous, honey! That's a terrific suitless bathing strap you almost have on," he said, causing a round of loud laughter while he scribbled his name. "You better hide in the woods before the Board of Health closes your body." He made a feline purring sound that drew more laughter. "There you go. Hey, isn't this fun, playing in the woods?"

The black bikini sauntered past Roarke and Leslie as they stood watching Baker with his fan club, and just as she did they heard footsteps and a voice hailing them. "Oh, Mr. Roarke, Leslie! Glad you're here to see this. After I deliver these, I'm free." Jerry Burton slapped a stack of small papers against one hand. "It's arrivederci Danny, hello my new career!"

Roarke drew in a breath and turned to him. "Unfortunately, Mr. Burton, there's a slight problem."

"Problem," echoed Burton, as if he'd been expecting this. Leslie watched him deflate and bit her lip again.

"Yes," said Roarke apologetically. "Apparently the reputation of the Bucket of Suds wasn't as unjust as the proprietor claimed. It seems they had a brawl there a few hours ago. Now, the proprietor apologized profoundly, and requested a thirty-day delay for your opening; apparently that's the sentence he'll receive for assault with intent to commit great bodily harm. Naturally, I told him to forget the whole thing." _There's another story for Michiko to tell on Monday at lunch,_ Leslie thought with a sigh.

Burton stared at Roarke in disbelief. "But Mr. Roarke, what'm I gonna do now? I mean…you promised me my fantasy!"

"And you shall have it, Mr. Burton!" Roarke assured him, beaming. "You shall have it! I have booked you a spot on the Amateur Show tomorrow night. You will be seen not only by the audience, but by several booking agents who have promised to attend."

"That's terrible," Burton said instantly, to Leslie's astonishment.

Roarke looked taken aback. "I beg your pardon?"

"Mr. Roarke, Danny is the emcee of that thing!" Burton protested. "When he sees me up there, he'll slice me to ribbons! Believe me, he is a master at that—I've seen him just tear comics apart." He cast a mournful look to their left, where Danny Baker was still holding court, and lamented, "I wouldn't stand a chance against him. He's just…too good at putting people down."

"Does that mean you are refusing?" Roarke wanted to know.

Burton stood for a moment glancing skittishly back and forth between Roarke and Leslie, then seemed to shrink in on himself, becoming the same nervous, trodden-upon lackey they'd first met in the supper club. "If you'll excuse me, I'd better get these jokes to him," he muttered and stepped between them, heading for Baker.

"Mr. Roarke, what's wrong with him?" Leslie asked, staring after Burton. "I thought his fantasy was to become a comic like Danny Baker!"

"It takes more than desire to fulfill any fantasy, my child," Roarke said, watching Burton with an inscrutable look on his handsome features. "The element of courage is indispensable to the realization of any dream." Leslie took in his words and wondered, considering what they'd seen so far of Jerry Burton, if there was the slightest bit of courage in a man who seemed so used to being herded into corrals by the forceful Danny Baker.

"Folks, folks, if I could have your attention, please, everybody. Please, attention, everybody," Baker's voice rang out just then. "As you know, tomorrow night is our big Amateur Talent Show, and I want you all to be there—because I'm gonna be there, and I hate to work alone." He got the expected laughter with this quip, grinned and went on: "And just to give you a sample of the fun we're gonna have tomorrow night, I'd like to read you some of my latest ad-libs." He chuckled and shuffled papers; and as Roarke and Leslie watched, Jerry Burton shoved his hands into his pockets, face a mask of misery. Baker just went right on talking as if he weren't there, spotting Roarke and Leslie standing nearby. "Oh, but first, let's have a big hand for our Mr. Roarke, huh?" Roarke smiled graciously at the applause that followed and raised an amused eyebrow at Leslie when she joined in, grinning. "And how about a biggie for Tattoo." Baker smirked; even though Tattoo wasn't there, he had no problem going through Burton's jokes about the absent Frenchman. "Oh, that Tattoo—he really is something else, lemme tell ya. Y'know, Mr. Roarke wanted to give him his fantasy, but it was a little hard to shrink down Raquel Welch." Roarke joined in the laughter this time, and Leslie giggled, but was unable to really get into the jokes, because her eye was on Jerry Burton as he slunk away, unnoticed and looking beaten. Still Baker carried on: "Then he tried dehydrating Dolly Parton, but that was a bust too! Get it, a bust?" He smirked, but neither Roarke nor Leslie was paying attention anymore.

Leslie thought about the whole mess all the way back to the main house, wondering to herself if somehow Roarke was going to fail for the first time. She dared not voice it aloud; she'd seen him pull several fantasies right off the brink of complete disaster, and supposed he must have some sort of plan, but had no idea what could possibly rescue this fantasy. She went a little reluctantly back to her book while Roarke settled into a chair and started in on some paperwork.

Then the inner-foyer door exploded open and in marched Victor Grennan, the federal marshal assigned to Mike Banning, his face red and his thick gray-white eyebrows meeting over his nose. "I got a bone to pick with you, Roarke," he announced.

Roarke, having seen him come in, made a show of being engrossed in a letter. "And what is the meaning of this, Marshal?" he inquired, voice cool and slightly absent-minded. Leslie realized he was making it clear to Grennan that the marshal was an unimportant cog in the machinery, at least from Roarke's point of view.

But it seemed to go right over Grennan's head. "Everything's under control, huh?" he bit out sardonically. "Nothin' to worry about, right?" Getting no response from Roarke, he tried to goad him. "Well, that's what you said, wadn't it, Mister Big Shot?"

Leslie blinked in amazement when Roarke let it sail right past him. "Hm?" Roarke glanced up for a split second. "Um, approximately, yes, uh-huh…"

Grennan stepped up to the desk, ignoring Leslie as if she didn't exist, his gaze becoming a taunting glare. "Well, then, suppose you tell me where my prisoner is. I saw him with that crippled girl, and now he's disappeared!"

Roarke did pause this time, ice filling his dark eyes; he put down the pages of the letter, sat up and speared Grennan with a voice as frigid as his gaze. "But like I told you," he reminded the man as if speaking to an especially thickheaded four-year-old, "he can't get off the island."

Nothing daunted, Grennan shot back, "Well, now _I'm_ tellin' _you_. He's attemptin' escape—and that's gonna get him killed!" He didn't wait longer than it took him to attempt to drill a hole in Roarke's head with his eyes before spinning on one foot and stalking out the door.

"Do you think he…" Leslie began timidly.

Roarke looked at her, looking less ruffled than she thought he should, and actually quirked a hint of a smile. "Yes," he said, as if surprised by the idea, "I think he really means to kill Mr. Banning."

"Then you better do something," Leslie said urgently. "I mean…even if Mike Banning isn't exactly a pinnacle of virtue, it's still illegal to kill him."

Roarke laughed. "Indeed, my child. Yes, I do plan to drive the point home to Marshal…uh, what's his name again?"

Leslie giggled. "Grennan." She waited a beat as Roarke started to rise, then kidded, "I think."

He laughed again and patted her shoulder as he moved around her chair. "If you'll do me the favor of taking any telephone messages for me, I'd be grateful. I'll try to be back as soon as I can." She nodded, and he left the house, leaving her to pick up _The Ransom of Red Chief_ and try to get through another chapter.

After not quite ten minutes, there was a knock and she looked up. "Come in."

A very pretty blonde woman came inside, looking a little uncertain; she was tall, and while not really slim, was certainly not overweight. Her shoulder-length hair was curled up at the ends and caught back by a headband, and she had a very wide, appealing grin. "Oh, hi, Leslie," she said. "Is Mr. Roarke here?"

"No, he had to go out for a bit," Leslie said. "I'll try to help if I can."

The young woman shrugged and grinned at her. "I'm Mary Margaret Doyle," she explained. "I'm…well, I went to high school with Jerome Burtinnowsky…"

"Who?" Leslie said blankly.

Mary Margaret grinned again, a little sheepishly, and hunched her shoulders. "Sorry, you know him as Jerry Burton. Anyway, I saw him yesterday and he mentioned he was breaking away from Danny Baker, going out on his own as a stand-up comic."

"Oh, yeah," said Leslie. "Are you looking for him?"

"Not right now, I'm sure he's busy," Mary Margaret said. "I figure he's getting ready for his big debut, you know?"

"I'm not too sure about that," said Leslie doubtfully, remembering the scene near the bay when Roarke had told Burton about the problem at the Bucket of Suds. "He might not be doing anything except running more errands for Mr. Baker."

Mary Margaret stared at her in surprise. "What makes you say that?"

Leslie peered up at her and hedged belatedly, "I don't know if I should be telling you all this…"

"I went to school with Jerry," Mary Margaret repeated. "Remember? We know each other. In fact, I—" She caught herself and cleared her throat. "Well, never mind about that. Anyway, I told Jerry I'd come to his debut and give him moral support, and he was really enthusiastic about it. Said I was welcome to come. You can ask him if you want."

"Oh, well, I guess I don't have to do that," Leslie said. Mary Margaret was too guileless to be lying, she thought_. Not that I'm such a good judge of character, but I can always double-check with Mr. Burton in case I start second-guessing myself!_ And in any case, it was just an appearance on the stage; it wasn't as if Mary Margaret were asking how much Burton was being paid or something like that. "Well, see, there was a problem at the bar where Mr. Burton was going to make his first appearance, and the date had to be canceled…so Mr. Roarke wangled him a spot in the Amateur Talent Show tomorrow night. Except he didn't want to do it, because he said since Danny Baker's the emcee, he'll rip him to pieces. I guess Mr. Baker has a way of cutting down other comics just to keep up his own popularity."

Mary Margaret frowned and looked down at her hands, which she held in front of her while chipping away at the pale-pink polish on one fingernail. "Oh, darn," she mumbled. "Then…how's Jerry ever going to get his career started?"

"Someplace far away from Danny Baker, probably," Leslie remarked.

Mary Margaret let out a small huff of amusement and nodded. "Yeah, I guess so." Her voice trailed off and she gazed into space for a moment, then shook her head. "I don't get it. That's not like Jerry at all. He might've been shy and everything back in school, but he never hesitated to stick up for himself. Maybe he's changed." She ruminated for another few seconds, then shrugged, sighed and focused on Leslie with another of her huge, sunny grins. "Well, okay, thanks, Leslie. I originally came in just to see if Mr. Roarke needs me for any room service tonight, but I can check with him later. Thanks for the information."

"Sure," said Leslie and watched Mary Margaret depart. She cast a glance at the grandfather clock, checked her progress in the book and snorted to herself, determinedly resuming her reading. At some point this evening they were supposed to hear from Cornelius Kelly, and she was still trying to figure out why Roarke seemed less than terrified about Tattoo's predicament. Something told her it was going to be a very long afternoon.


	26. Chapter 26

§ § § -- May 5, 1979

"Marshal Grennan!"

The white-haired man, just about to pull the trigger of his revolver, froze and whipped his head around to stare as Roarke approached him from a trail where he'd found Grennan and Mike Banning just in time. Banning lay in the bottom of a rowboat beached on the shore of a pond that eventually drained into the ocean; Roarke could see at a glance that Banning's intention had been to make a break for it in the boat, only to get caught by Grennan. Banning half sat up and watched as Roarke closed in on the marshal.

"As I warned you," Roarke said icily, "you have no jurisdiction on this island. You pull the trigger, and it's murder." Grennan broke his gaze but didn't react otherwise. "You will be treated and tried like a common criminal."

Banning apparently couldn't resist throwing his own two cents in. "And guys all over the world in prisons'd like to see _you_ again, ape." Grennan glared at him, held the gun on him but didn't move.

Roarke pressed the advantage. "I suggest you go back to your quarters." Grennan held his pose one more moment, shot Roarke a fast, fulminating glance, then finally engaged the safety on his gun, turned and stalked away. Roarke didn't bother watching him go. "You can ride with me, Mr. Banning."

Banning pushed himself out of the boat and hesitated in front of Roarke, who glanced down the path to be sure Grennan was retreating as ordered. "Thanks," he said finally, peering up at him. "I owe you one."

Roarke's gaze seemed to freeze still further. "I believe you left Miss Larson in the middle of a conversation. Perhaps you should explain to her why you stopped writing." So saying, he headed back down the path toward the car that waited at the nearby Ring Road; Banning, startled and even slightly ashamed, followed in silence.

§ § § -- May 6, 1979

Late the following morning Roarke went down to the supper club to check on preparations for the talent show that evening, taking Leslie along with him. There was a line of people standing in front of the stage, waiting their turn to sign up for the final performance after having gone through preliminary registration earlier. Those who showed up and performed a sort of "rehearsal" of their act for the night would be given a slot in the show that evening. Roarke had a clipboard and was checking off names; at the moment there was an elderly woman on the stage, doing bird calls, of all things.

"The red-breasted sapsucker," she said and let out a loud cawing sound that more closely resembled a crow to Leslie. She winced to herself, hoping nobody had seen her; she caught a glimpse of Roarke's face and wondered how he could keep from reacting to all these awful contestants. "Next," said the woman, "the crested warbler meets a speckled titmouse." She started to trill, and Leslie hoped that Fantasy Island's indigenous night crier wasn't included in her repertoire.

"Thank you, Mrs. Keoki," Roarke said when the woman geared up to do another bird call. Looking relieved, the old lady vacated the stage, revealing a musician whom Roarke recognized. He beamed and crossed over to shake the man's hand. "Mr. Weller! How nice of you to do a guest appearance on our little show."

The musician, Freddy Weller, grinned back. "My pleasure, Mr. Roarke. Besides, the song I'm going to do is all about Fantasy Island. I can't think of a better place to try it out."

Leslie, now anticipating Freddy Weller's new song, glanced around and spotted Jerry Burton and Mary Margaret Doyle there, going over more jokes that Burton had written for his boss. Before they could do much more than exchange hellos, a group of five or six soaked and shivering young beauties shoved their way into the backstage area, clearly looking for Roarke. The moment the first one spotted him, she wasted no time on so much as a greeting but instead cried, "It's terrible—you better do something quick."

Roarke took in her appearance and that of her companions, and asked in amazement, "About what, Tammy? What happened?"

"We were out on a boat ride with Danny Baker, and the engine conked out. We swam ashore, but Danny can't swim, and he's stuck out in the bay!"

"But…but he's got a show to do tonight!" Roarke protested.

"No way!" Tammy retorted firmly and with that, left, followed by her friends, all probably in search of towels and dry clothing. Roarke watched them go; Leslie made a face, figuring they'd probably overcrowded whatever boat they must have rented at the marina and worn the engine right out.

Then Roarke shifted gears and said, "Uh…well, there is only one answer. Instead of just a guest appearance, you will have to go on in Mr. Baker's place as emcee tonight." This he addressed to Jerry Burton, whose eyes widened and face lengthened with horror while Mary Margaret lit up.

"Me?!" Burton exclaimed.

"Yes," Roarke said.

Burton was obviously flabbergasted. "Tonight??"

"Yes," responded Roarke again, patiently.

"You can do the jokes you wrote for Danny!" Mary Margaret exclaimed delightedly.

"Of course. I will make an announcement and then call you at the proper moment." Roarke started back toward the stage with his clipboard as Burton opened his mouth to protest; then he seemed to remember something and paused to smile at Burton over one shoulder. "Oh, and Mr. Burton…break a leg." With that he left, and Leslie hid a grin at Roarke's show-business terminology and followed, squeezing past a fellow decked out as a one-man band with at least five instruments attached to him in some fashion. Roarke paused to check him off the clipboard and told him he could go.

"You didn't even listen to him play," said Leslie. "How come?"

"I've heard him play," Roarke responded, in a tone that told her enough that she didn't bother asking any other questions. She just grinned and settled onto a stool to watch more auditions.

‡ ‡ ‡

Tattoo had come back from his adventures with Cornelius Kelly and Alphonse, who were still stuck in the kitchen plucking chickens for a banquet (and for Leslie's birthday party, to which they would all be going when the show was over); and the two orphans had chosen their new parents—or, more correctly, parent, since they had decided they wanted to be adopted by Miss Ewell, the operator of the orphanage they had been living in. Leslie had been wondering about Sandi Larson and Mike Banning; she peered through the narrow opening between the stage curtains a few minutes before showtime, spying Linda Larson in the audience, seated at a table near the front. She was accompanied by a young couple who held hands atop the table and were listening intently to something Linda was saying.

She caught a movement in her peripheral vision and turned her head to see Roarke beckoning at her; she scurried backstage and joined him, Tattoo, Jerry Burton and Mary Margaret Doyle. Mary Margaret greeted her; Burton mumbled a distracted hello, standing there breathing hard, with his eyes closed. Roarke glanced at him and smiled slightly, then strolled onto the stage as the curtains parted. He smiled and acknowledged the applause, then spoke. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to Fantasy Island's annual Night of Talent! We have an exciting array of gifted amateurs waiting to perform for you. So let's begin with one of those unexpected extras—a true professional with a song I know you will enjoy. Let us give a fantastic welcome to Mr. Freddy Weller." Applause welled up again, and he left the stage as Weller took his place and settled onto a stool there.

Sure enough, Weller's song was a tribute extolling the virtues of Fantasy Island; Leslie listened, enchanted, and Roarke and Tattoo exchanged a glance and smiled at her expression. As Weller swung into the song's instrumental bridge, they all heard Jerry Burton's stammering, nervous voice deeper in the room: "Maybe he'll show…maybe Danny'll sh—maybe—" He stopped, sucked in a deep breath and finally got out the words. "Maybe Danny'll get back in time and I won't have to go on."

"Come on now, you're gonna be great," Mary Margaret admonished him, and shushed him as he tried to protest once more. Out front, Freddy Weller wound up his song and left the stage, and Roarke returned to make the fateful introduction.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Weller. You see, I promised you a pleasant surprise. And now, to kick off our amateur contest, your master of ceremonies for the evening is a young man who will be making his own comedy debut on our stage. I think you'll find him most amusing. It gives me great pleasure, ladies and gentlemen, to present to you Mr. Jerry Burton." Burton scuttled past Tattoo and Leslie as a short fanfare played, and Roarke relinquished his place at the microphone while Mary Margaret came up behind the threesome and watched eagerly.

Burton effusively thanked everyone, then launched right into his routine at a nearly frantic clip. "I'd just like to say right at the outset what a thrill it is to be working in a classy place like Fantasy Island, because most of the joints I work in are very tough, and I'm talking tough here. I mean, I worked in a place that was so tough, the doorman used to shove you through the mail slot!" Mary Margaret giggled softly, but hers was the only sound; the audience was ominously quiet, and Leslie felt her stomach go light on Burton's behalf. The young man barreled on: "I found a fly in my soup at this place…had cement around its feet!" He paused, but nothing happened. Leslie was almost surprised not to hear crickets chirping. She glanced up at Roarke, whose face was impassive.

"Or asphalt!" Burton blurted out, beginning to flounder. "But…this is tough…I mean…" He covered the mike, and only those backstage heard his muttered, "Not as tough as this…" Leslie winced; Tattoo slowly shook his head, and Mary Margaret released a soft groan of sympathy from behind her. "But, ladies and gentlemen…the first contestant on the Amateur Night bill." He referred to his notes. "He is the one man on Fantasy Island with a one-man band." Roarke rolled his eyes, then composed himself; Leslie and Tattoo both saw it and smirked at each other as Burton called to the opposite wing, "C'mon out here, Don…"

The one-man band strolled onstage and promptly began banging away on his drum and tootling on a kazoo, immediately drawing laughter from the audience. Burton came back looking frustrated. "You were wonderful!" Mary Margaret insisted.

Burton snorted, "Oh, sure, they loved me. That's why they didn't laugh." He squeezed his eyes shut and then stared at her insistently. "Mary, I c—I can't get to them. _I'm not funny." _The others looked at one another. "Not the way Danny is."

They'd thought his routine seemed too familiar, and now Leslie understood why as she and Tattoo looked at each other with realization on their faces. Roarke said gently, "There is only one Danny Baker." Burton nodded gloomy agreement, then stilled as Roarke added, "But there is also only one Jerry Burton." Burton looked at him oddly, and Roarke urged, "Don't try to do your material the way Danny would do it. Be yourself." Burton looked at Mary Margaret, who nodded and gave him an encouraging grin.

The one-man band finished up his tune and concluded his act with a whoop and a simultaneous release of several colorful "snakes" of the sort found coiled in prank cans; the audience laughed and applauded him off the stage, and Burton heaved a deep breath and returned. As he did, Tattoo stole a glance into the audience, leaned forward as if trying to see something better, then stood up with a worried look on his face and stared at Roarke. "Boss, Danny Baker is back! He's gonna kill Jerry!"

Leslie searched the audience and discovered Tattoo was right; evidently Danny Baker had finally been rescued from his boating mishap and was now seated rather unobtrusively in the middle of the audience, clapping for the one-man band right along with them. Roarke located him as well, then cast Burton one concerned glance on the stage before stepping back behind the wings with the others.

"Thank you, Don!" Burton said cheerfully and glanced down, only to find one of Don's "snakes" caught on the microphone stand. He lifted it off and peered at it. "What's this? Looks like a knockwurst wrapped in a French flag. Who needs it." He tossed it over his shoulder, and for the first time the audience laughed at his quip, giving him new confidence—and causing him to make precisely the same mistake he'd made moments ago. "Hey, listen, folks, you know, Don is not a professional musician. He's actually a VIP, Very Important Person; he's got five thousand people under him. Mows lawns in a cemetery!" There was a long, silent pause; Leslie chanced a peek into the audience and saw Danny Baker now standing, arms folded over his chest, watching Burton critically. She bit her lip and looked back onstage.

Burton swallowed and spoke into the microphone again, sounding more subdued. "Um…you all know Mr. Tattoo. He's a wonderful guy…so is Mr. Roarke…they gave me a big opportunity here tonight. And I'm blowing it." He looked down and away, while Mary Margaret seemed about to cry. "I'm…I'm sorry…"

Then, out of nowhere, a voice bellowed out of the audience, "Hey, Burton! D'you know you happen to be my favorite comedian?"

Burton goggled. "Danny? Is that you?" he blurted, off the mike.

But Baker heard him and yelled back, "No, it's Fidel Castro, but since I shaved, nobody knows me." The audience laughed. "Of course it's me, silly, in the flesh!"

Burton looked decidedly relieved as he announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Danny Baker!" Applause followed Baker onto the stage, and Leslie and Mary Margaret traded looks; Tattoo had an anxious expression on his face and Roarke frowned a little.

"Well," Baker said, "I don't care about anything, I think you're hilarious. As a matter of fact, I was gonna send you a fan letter."

He was clearly waiting for Burton to pick up the slack, but Burton was slightly slow on the uptake and stood staring at Danny for a moment before he suddenly seemed to catch on. "Why couldn't you send me a fan letter?" he asked dutifully.

"'Cause I didn't know how to spell—" and Baker let out a raspberry. The audience laughed.

Burton picked up the repartee and ran with it. "Now, listen, Danny, I'm not gonna get into a battle of wits with you."

"Why not?" Baker fed him the line.

"Because I never fight an unarmed man!" This met with loud laughter; Roarke was grinning, and Leslie, Tattoo and Mary Margaret joined in the merriment. From that point on, they never stopped as the two onstage kept rolling along. "But seriously, folks, you have to admire a man like Danny Baker; he has probably the finest comedy mind in the world!"

"That's true," Baker said and smirked.

"Unfortunately, it happens to be in my head…hey, Danny, c'mon, isn't that true? Haven't I written all your lines for the last eight years?"

"Well, I can't answer that right now…"

"Why not?"

"Because you didn't give me anything to say! But I don't need a writer to say this, kid, and this comes right from the gut. You make me sick. But seriously, Jerry, why don'tcha tell the folks what you—what you really and truly think of me, huh?"

"I'd be glad to, Danny; I always look upon you as my melancholy baby. …Head like a melon, face like a collie!" On the guffaws this brought on, Burton swung the mike stand aside and blurted euphorically to Baker, "Hey, look, I'm makin' 'em laugh!!"

To the surprise of the onlookers backstage, Baker retorted, "No, _we're_ makin' 'em laugh, together—and we'll go on doing it this way, this is great!" He grabbed the mike and hollered into it, "Hey, how about this Fantasy Island, isn't this some terrific island? And what about this hotel, huh?"

"What a hotel!" Burton agreed. "Listen, I wouldn't want to say the bellboys are tip-hungry, but when I ordered a deck of cards, they made fifty-two trips!"

"Fifty-two trips…and you believe how small these rooms are?"

"Small rooms…my room is so small—" Burton prompted, and the audience instantly roared back, "How small _is_ your room?" Caught up in the fun, Leslie yelled it from backstage right along with them, making Roarke and Tattoo burst out laughing.

Burton grinned. "My room is so small, when you get into bed, the doorknob gets in there with ya!"

"And you gotta go out in the hallway to change your mind," Baker threw in over the laughter and applause.

"My room is so small, even the mice are hunchbacked," cackled Burton, and Baker laughed along with the audience. At last they settled down and announced the next act, but as far as Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie were concerned, the new act of Burton and Baker was a complete success.


	27. Chapter 27

§ § § -- May 6, 1979

The talent show ended at nine that evening, and Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie congratulated Jerry Burton and Danny Baker on the successful debut of their new comedy team. "I think you're gonna be a smash," Tattoo predicted.

"All we have to do is make a couple announcements, and we oughta be in business," Baker said, clapping Burton on the shoulder. The younger man was still on a huge high; his face looked like a new star. "Looks like Jerry here's still rarin' to go!"

"I need time to wind down," Burton admitted, sliding an arm around Mary Margaret.

"Then perhaps you'd be interested in attending Leslie's birthday party," Roarke offered. "We are about to go to the venue ourselves."

"Oh, happy birthday!" chorused the three guests, and Leslie turned scarlet and grinned foolishly, hanging her head.

"Mr. Roarke," she mumbled in protest, and they all laughed. Roarke gave the guests the name and location of the banquet where Leslie's party was also being held, and they agreed to meet them there.

On their way out the door they were intercepted by Linda Larson, whose expression was a little anxious. "I promised Sandi I'd stay out late," she said helplessly. "I mean…I can't imagine why she wanted that, or why she wouldn't come to the talent show. She said she was waiting for someone."

"Oh?" Roarke inquired.

"If she thinks Mike Banning's going to show up now…" Linda scowled. "Sandi told me at dinner how he came to the pool and told her why he tried to run away from her. She said she not only showed him she can swim—because of his letters, mind you—but she apparently even got out of her wheelchair and managed a few steps. I wish I had seen that—that's the inspiration that man gave her, Mr. Roarke. But then he walked out on her again. He can't seem to make up his mind. He keeps putting Sandi through this ridiculous emotional roller coaster, and I don't think she can take much more. He'd better either fish or cut bait, and if his behavior this weekend has been any example, I think he'll be heading for Leavenworth tomorrow."

"Perhaps your sister knows him better than you think, Ms. Larson," Roarke said gently. "In any case, if you are looking for a distraction, why don't you attend Leslie's birthday party?"

"Mr. Roarke!" Leslie burst out again, astonished. "Are you gonna invite the whole island?"

Again this got laughter. "Would you prefer that no one attend?" Roarke teased her, and she made a face. "Of course, Ms. Larson, it's your decision…"

"Oh, I think it sounds like fun. Happy birthday, Leslie. Where's the party?"

So, fifteen minutes later, Leslie found herself the center of attention in a small functions room at the hotel, adjacent to the one where the banquet was being held; all her school friends were there, as well as Roarke and Tattoo, their fantasizing guests, and even Mana'olana with a big birthday cake. Not only were Linda Larson, Mary Margaret Doyle, Jerry Burton and Danny Baker there, so were Ruth Ewell, former orphanage matron, and her soon-to-be-adopted children, Mark and Rebecca. The guests all enjoyed a dinner—served by none other than Cornelius Kelly and his friend Alphonse, who since they were also working the banquet looked as if they could stand a couple of days' sleep. Leslie almost felt sorry enough for them to save them some cake, until Alphonse confronted Tattoo with a muttered insult and Tattoo suggested curtly that he get back to work before he got docked whatever pay Roarke saw fit to give him. That changed her mind about the cake, and she ignored both him and Cornelius after that.

It was almost ten when Roarke suggested she start opening presents. She had one gift each from Myeko, Michiko, Lauren and Camille, who gave her record albums and books to add to her still-tiny collection. Roarke presented her with a set of picture frames, then collared Cornelius and murmured instructions to him. Cornelius disappeared into the bathroom and shortly came back out lugging a beautiful cherrywood rocking chair with thick cushions in blue, green and yellow plaid.

"Oh, that's beautiful!" Leslie gasped as the party attendees admired the chair. "Wow, Mr. Roarke, is that really for me?"

"I thought you'd enjoy having a place in your room to sit and read a book, perhaps," Roarke said, smiling.

"I love it," Leslie exclaimed. "I used to have a little rocking chair in my room, till it…till the fire." She swallowed and suddenly hugged him. "This one's so much prettier. Thank you, Mr. Roarke, thank you."

"I wish I had room for something like that," Camille commented enviously. She shared a room with her older sister Andrea. "Maybe when Andrea leaves for college…"

Tattoo gave her a handsomely framed corkboard to hang on her wall, along with a small leather-bound book containing blank pages and covered in marbled hunter green. "It's an autograph book," he said when she thumbed through it. "Thought you might like that."

"It's really pretty," she said. "Thank you, Tattoo—the corkboard'll be a terrific bulletin board too."

"That's a lovely book," Ruth Ewell remarked. "I had one when I was your age. I think it's still around somewhere."

"Say, kiddo, want us to christen it?" offered Danny Baker all of a sudden.

Leslie blinked at him in amazement. "Would you really? That'd be great." Then she noticed Jerry Burton and added, "You too, Mr. Burton. I mean, since you're a team now and all that…"

"My first professional autograph," cracked Jerry Burton and everyone laughed as he and Baker signed the first page in Leslie's new book. She studied the signatures within and smiled to herself, wondering how long it would take her to fill it. It was pretty thick. Maybe she'd count the pages tonight. She looked up at her guardian, marveling that she hadn't been here even three months yet and he was being so generous nonetheless. It was the first birthday she had celebrated without her mother, but she was surrounded by friends and people who loved her. What more could she ask for?

§ § § -- May 7, 1979

The prison-transport plane had been repaired, and a rover waited outside for the trip to the airport. In front of Roarke's desk stood Mike Banning, holding hands with Sandi Larson in her wheelchair; Linda had brought her sister in and was now waiting alongside them, her face bright with gratitude. Banning smiled at Roarke. "Well, I want to thank you, Mr. Roarke. Three years should go by pretty fast, as long as she's waiting for me."

Roarke said, "Oh, you may not have to wait three years. Information has come to light that the guard was responsible for the incident that prevented your parole, and they've sent another marshal from Japan to take you back for a new parole hearing."

Banning and Sandi looked at each other in wonder, and Linda's mouth dropped open; Leslie beamed as Banning and Sandi chorused, "No more mailman!" They kissed, while Linda shook her head and smiled broadly at Leslie.

"What about Grennan?" Banning asked when he straightened up.

"He's been flown on to Kansas in the plane on which you originally arrived here," Roarke explained. "Questions have been raised in regard to his conduct towards prisoners, and you might say he is facing a little music of his own. If you wish, you may remain in the Larson ladies' bungalow until we come to pick you up for your flight back to Japan."

"Sounds great. Well, Sandi…" Banning turned to her and ran a hand down her hair. "I'll be seeing you, I promise. I'll write you and let you know all the details."

"We'll both be waiting," Linda said and smiled. "Mr. Roarke, thank you. You really delivered on your promise. I'm so grateful. And I'm glad you distracted me with that talent show and your ward's birthday party. I think I really needed it…Sandi seemed right on the edge last evening when she insisted I go."

"It was your birthday?" Sandi asked Leslie.

"Yeah," Leslie admitted with a shrug. "Mr. Roarke and Tattoo combined it with a banquet that was already scheduled for yesterday anyway. I wasn't expecting a party…well, at least, not one with so many people." They all laughed.

"How old are you?" Banning asked.

"Fourteen," she responded shyly.

Banning looked rueful. "I hope it's a better year for you than it was for me."

"With Mr. Roarke as her guardian, she can't lose," Linda Larson said and reached across her sister's shoulder to shake hands with Roarke. "Thank you again, so much."

Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie met Danny Baker, Jerry Burton and Mary Margaret Doyle at the plane dock. Mary Margaret was beaming; the two men were in high spirits and seemed like the best of friends. "Well, I learned a great lesson, Mr. Roarke," Baker remarked, eyeing Tattoo. "Never let Tattoo set up your boat trips—you might not make it back to shore." Everyone chuckled, and Baker went on, "But I'm really glad it happened, though. It made me realize that Jerry here was more than just a kid, and if I'd let him go when his contract ran out, I'd be losing the best part of my act." He chortled, shook hands with Roarke and Leslie, and headed off for the plane.

Burton stepped forward then. "Goodbye, Mr. Roarke, thanks from me too." They shook hands and Burton followed Baker; Mary Margaret shook hands as well and started off, then paused and ran back to Roarke.

"And thanks for making my fantasy come true too," she said, clasping Roarke's hands and favoring him with her high-wattage grin. "I guess I've been in love with Jerry since high school." She popped a kiss onto his cheek and bounded away to rejoin Burton. Leslie blinked, then giggled, and joined Roarke in waving after the couple.

Just as the plane-dock band wound down their farewell tune, a low, soft voice emanated from somewhere nearby, and they looked at each other and then around them, only then realizing that Tattoo wasn't with them. About to wonder aloud what had happened to him, they were both silenced when Tattoo emerged from behind a bush, dressed in casual clothing and with a cloth hat on his head, a pipe in one hand and a microphone in the other. The voice coming out of his mouth was that of the late Bing Crosby, crooning away in his trademark manner.

When Tattoo had finished, he smirked up at them. "Hey guys, how'd you like it?"

Roarke looked stunned. "Amazing! Tattoo, I take it back—that is the best Bing Crosby impersonation I have ever heard! Please sing some more, please, please…"

"Yeah, come on, let's hear some more," Leslie agreed, enormously impressed.

Cheerfully Tattoo obliged: _"Over in Killarney, many years ago…my mother sang a song to me, in tones so soft and low…and low…and low…"_ The last two words repeated endlessly, accompanied by a telltale pop that made Roarke's and Leslie's smiles slowly fade. They looked at each other, then at Tattoo, whose abashed expression gave him away.

Roarke picked up the cord of Tattoo's microphone and followed it behind a couple of bushes, only to come upon Chester the Chimp perched on the ground next to a record player that was still emitting the words from the skipping LP rotating on the turntable. Leslie peered over his shoulder and groaned; Roarke slowly turned back to Tattoo with a stern glare. Tattoo shrugged sheepishly, and all of a sudden Roarke's shoulders shook a little. Leslie turned to stare at him just in time to see him begin to roar with laughter, and stood at his side giggling in spite of herself and shaking her head. Tattoo grinned back, still sheepish, but obviously relieved there were no hard feelings over his little deception!

§ § § -- April 6, 2006

"That Tattoo," Rogan said, shaking his head. "What a prankster, eh, uncle?"

"Uncle Roarke," Rory broke in then, "tell us more about Tattoo, please? He musta been a really funny guy if he did all that crazy silly stuff."

"I suspect a large amount of it was due to the influence of his cousin Hugo," Roarke said, "but he did provide quite a bit of comic relief—much of it probably unintentional. However, I'm afraid that will have to wait for another day." He cast a glance at the grandfather clock. "The afternoon is aging, and I'm afraid we all have a good deal to do in order to prepare for this weekend's fantasies."

"Aw," Rory mumbled.

Roarke saw the boy's disappointment and smiled. "I promise, I won't forget," he said. "For that matter, I'm certain you won't be the only one who will enjoy hearing stories about Tattoo, and I suspect Leslie has plenty of her own to contribute." He grinned when Leslie nodded emphatically. "Julie, is there anything else you need?"

"Guess I'm all done here," Julie said, rising and handing over the room list she had been clutching all this time. "This was fun, uncle. We really should do it again sometime—and soon, too. We don't spend enough time together just visiting."

Roarke regarded her contemplatively and smiled. "I think you're right, Julie. Then we'll try to make it a regular thing. For now…thank you."

"Thank _you_, uncle," Julie said, grinning. "It's been the best afternoon I've had in a very long time. Okay, Rory, we've gotta get going. Ready, Rogan?"

"Comin' right along, lassie," Rogan replied and arose. "Soon as I get down to the kitchen and check with Mariki as to her spice supply."

Christian sighed. "I suppose I'd better get back to work on that website design. Perhaps now I can think better, having had a break. I'll be here with the children, Mr. Roarke, if you'd like me to take any telephone calls that may come in."

"Yes, I'd appreciate that, as long as it doesn't interfere with your work," said Roarke. "And Leslie, if you would, please go to the ferry dock on the other end of the island and pick up a few boxes. Some of the cheese that is to be entered in this month's competition is to be stored away to age properly until the date of the contest."

"Will do, Father," Leslie agreed.

"Cheesemaking contest, huh?" Julie mused. "I'll definitely be in on this one, uncle, no matter what. You can count on that."

"I'm sure you will," Roarke said indulgently. "And quite likely in on any drama that may accompany it, too…"

* * *

_A story in the tradition of the cooking and winery competitions mentioned herein will be the next tale up. Meantime, I'm giving credit where credit is due. I transcribed material from the following episodes:_

"_Cornelius and Alphonse/The Choice", May 6, 1979 – starring Red Buttons and Billy Barty_

_The tale of Tattoo and the invisibility potion was taken from "Nona/One Million B.C.", March 1, 1980; I expanded on the original scene and turned it into a full-blown story._

_The scene of Tattoo's attempt at ventriloquism was taken from "Eagleman/Children of Mentu", May 17, 1980_

"_The Devil and Mandy Breem/Instant Millionaire", October 25, 1980 – starring Carol Lynley, Adam West, Arte Johnson, Arlene Golonka and Roddy McDowall_

"_High Off the Hog/Reprisal", January 10, 1981 – starring Maureen McCormick, Janis Paige, Holly Gagnier, Stephen Shortridge and Shecky Greene_

"_The Artist and the Lady/Elizabeth's Baby", January 17, 1981 – starring Eve Plumb, Alison Arngrim and Donny Most_

"_Flying Aces/The Mermaid Returns", November 1, 1980 – starring Michelle Phillips_

"_The Mermaid and the Matchmaker/The Obsolete Man", March 24, 1984 – starring Michelle Phillips and Dennis Cole_

"_Goose for the Gander/Stuntman", September 14, 1979 – starring Abe Vigoda, Doris Roberts, Hans Conried and Vito Scotti_

"_Lookalikes/The Winemaker", December 22, 1979 – starring Celeste Holm and Nita Talbot_

"_The Comic/The Golden Hour", May 5, 1979 – starring Fred Grandy, Jack Carter, Patricia Klous, Toni Tennille, Michael Parks, Morgan Woodward and Freddy Weller. Some additional lines were taken from the second-draft script dated February 17, 1979. (P.S. Freddy's song "Fantasy Island" is available in its full version on his 1978 album __Love Got in the Way__.)_


End file.
